The Adventure of the Missing Candlestick
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Sherlock and Watson miss some finding but find something missing - after they bump into a rather weird doctor who insists he's from outside the EU. Rated K  for use of weapons and the occasional naughty word.
1. Sherlock and Watson Take A Cab With

**Author's Note:**

_I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson (past or present), Doctor Who, the BBC, or in fact owt but the MacBook Air I typed this on. All I hope to gain from this is a single reader who thinks reading this is a better use of their time than watching repeats on telly. Which, obviously, you can't bank._

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**Sherlock And Watson Take A Cab With A Stranger**

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They strode down the pavement lit with the best electric that the City of Westminster could provide, Sherlock out of a sense of purpose, Watson more out of a sense of not wanting to be left behind.

"So where are we going?" he asked quickly.

"If the room was locked from the outside and housed no windows, then they must have already been inside when the place was sealed."

"But you'd still have to get out," he reasoned.

"Getting out is easy. Hide in plain sight. Getting _in_ would be tricky, especially in a museum. And why steal an antique candlestick that isn't even worth the wages of the cleaner who dusts its case every night?" Sherlock demanded as they made good time down the street.

"So where _are_ we going?" Watson asked again.

"I need to use the Yellow Pages."

"There might be one in the phone box there-"

"Last year's. There's one propping up the lamp in the sitting room."

"Why don't we get a taxi back then?"

"I need to walk. Helps me think."

The taxis and buses thundered past, the sounds of music and people enjoying a pretty decent Friday night encircled them, but neither of them really took much notice. Watson was trying to work out how getting in a museum room before it was locked had anything to do with why they were hurrying across extremity-endangering parky London streets. Sherlock's brain was awhirl with machinations that could have given the land-speed record a run for its money. His mind was rudely pulled out of its thrall as his eyes noticed something of interest and telegraphed his brain at top speed, kicking his attention out of the thinking process to take stock of the furious gesturing and urgent darting of his eyes. What it found was a man on their side of the pavement, doing nothing more exciting than walking toward them.

As the two parties drew closer, it was obvious the man in the long brown coat was lost. He stopped and twirled, a hand to the back of his head, as he stared around him. His white Converse - _battered, still available in shops, replacement laces, unfamiliar mud_, Sherlock noted - propelled him round in a dizzying circle just as the three men should have passed like ships in the night. Watson, a few steps to the right of Sherlock, was saved an elbow in the nose by virtue of his flatmate catching the heavy-coated limb and bringing it to a stop.

"Oop! Sorry!" the stranger said cheerily, rounding on the two of them. "Just looking for a street, but all these places look alike."

"At this time of night? Impossible," Sherlock said amiably, releasing his elbow. "Where is it you're trying to get to?"

"The V and A," the man said, his hands going out wide in mystification, letting the streetlamp overhead reveal the slightly rumpled brown suit he had on. "I know I should be in Kensington, but I just can't-"

"The Victoria and Albert Museum is closed," Sherlock interrupted curiously. "And we're closer to Marylebone."

"Marylebone! I _knew_ it!" the man cried, and if his tone could have been made real and given a handle he would have been hitting himself on the head with it. "So Kensington is… uhm…"

"A bit of a walk," Watson put in helpfully.

"Bother," the man tutted, before turning to look down at Watson. "I _needed_ that candlestick. Well, not that it's really a candlestick. Or even a stick. Never mind, it'll have to wait until morning."

"A candlestick?" Watson blurted. "One was just stolen this aftern-." He stopped short as the corner of his eye picked up how Sherlock was glaring at him. "Oh. Um."

"Stolen?" the man demanded, pinning the ex-army man with a gaze he could have bottled and sold as 'Surprise'. "Are you sure?"

"Well…" Watson glanced at Sherlock, but the other man's gaze was already dissecting and cataloguing the good-looking stranger. "Yes, we've just come from-"

"An _old_ candlestick-looking thing, about this long?" the man asked, lifting both hands and indicating a gap running to about a foot. "Brown and almost rusty, red tips on what people think are the holders, got a couple of strange round green decorations on the side?"

"Yes," Watson said innocently. "Know a lot about ancient candlesticks?"

"It's not a candlestick," the man remarked.

"Oh. An historian, are you?" Watson ventured.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. He's not even from here. And he travels in time," Sherlock said dismissively.

"I'm sorry - you're telling _me_ not to be ridiculous?" Watson scoffed.

Sherlock ignored him, lifting his chin and scrutinising the tall stranger.

The man in the striped brown suit stared back. "Have we met?" he mused quietly, his jaw jutting to one side, giving the impression that he was mulling something over.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Name?"

"Don't have one."

"A moniker, then. What do you go by?"

"The Doctor."

"You're not a medical man."

"How do you know that?" the Doctor breathed, all at once totally and instantly intrigued.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and a tiny suggestion of a smile flirted with his lips. "Your hands. You do a lot with them - they're used and covered in scratches, so you don't wear gloves - but they're not old enough to be _your_ hands. Like you only got them a few years ago."

"Good," the Doctor marvelled with a small smile. "Go on."

"You're an alien," he added, folding his arms and reflecting the Doctor's apparent amusement.

"You mean immigrant?" Watson asked innocently. "He sounds English to me."

"What makes you think I'm an alien?" the Doctor grinned.

"You have two pulses in your wrist - it could be that you have a very interesting vascular arrangement, a very serious birth defect, or even that you have two hearts. Easiest and most practical explanation for the more efficient blood supply you appear to have? Two hearts. You're tall but you're always looking up not down - so you grew up in a place with nothing but tall buildings and they were worth looking at - could be somewhere like London or somewhere like Hong Kong. _However_ - your eyes are always open far too much for someone used to this light - so you grew up in a place where the sky was a different colour or tint, probably orange, if your choice of suit colour and tie and your complete ignorance of the harsh streetlamp above your head that makes normal people squint are anything to go by. You're not even cold but it's around five degrees this evening, so perhaps your body temperature is higher, possibly caused by the two hearts, I'd say anywhere between five and ten degrees - am I close?" Sherlock paused, but the man simply grinned. "You've been here before but not recently, and yet you don't look old enough to have been here when you _were_. Ergo, you travel in time as well as space."

Watson looked from one man to the other, clearly confused. "Excuse me - how do you know when he was here?"

"His tie - a 1969 Marks & Spencer's if I'm not mistaken and I know I'm not," Sherlock said curtly. Then he looked back at the Doctor. "Bought recently and brand new - hard to do if we're not in 1969. It hasn't been worn more than a handful of times but it's your favourite one so you wear it often, so either that's a new shirt or the tie hasn't had time to make the fold in the collar," he rattled off matter-of-factly.

"Maybe it was an antique gift," the Doctor smiled.

"An antique that still looks brand new, the shine still on the silk? I don't think so. And this friend - from Earth, is she? This alleged gift-buyer? Probably a girl who knows you but not as well as she'd like, seeing as men don't give ties, and even then they're bought by their wives. And since people on this planet don't make a habit of skipping off and visiting others - which John informs me would be hard to do - you must have been here before close to 1969, either to visit this friend or buy the tie."

"Clever," the Doctor nodded, his hands whipping his long brown coat clear of his pockets to allow his hands to slip into them.

"What I don't get is why," Sherlock added suddenly.

"Why what?"

"Why you don't want to go home."

The Doctor eyed him, his smile gone, but it was Watson who interrupted.

"I'm sorry - you're saying he's an alien? Like a real, actual, from-another-planet alien? Not just from outside the EU?"

"Yes, John, I'm saying he's an alien," Sherlock replied irritably. "Keep up."

"But - an alien. An actual _alien_."

"You've said that four times. Why is it so hard to get your head around?"

"_Alien!_ The word _alien_," Watson spluttered.

"Six," the Doctor and Sherlock said together. The Doctor grinned and then turned large, apologetic eyes on Watson. "He's right," he nodded. "I _am_ from outside the EU."

Watson stared at him, then looked him up and down in befuddlement.

"Funny - no-one ever questions the time travel thing," the Doctor mused, looking over his head now. "It's always the 'well you look human to me' argument."

Sherlock shrugged further into his coat, his eyes still running over the tall man. The Doctor looked back at him in patient silence, and a long moment of mutual scrutiny passed. Finally, Sherlock's gaze shifted to Watson. He still looked as though he had run full-tilt through the streets of thought only to be smacked in the face full-on with a frying pan of shock.

The Doctor looked at Watson with a doubtful expression that could have rewritten history if only William the Conquerer had seen it. "Are you alright - uhm, John, is it?" he asked.

"Yes. John. And… I'll just have to get over it," he havered.

"Ah. Now you look sound more upset about me being an alien than your friend here going off on one about the minutiae of the universe," he said knowingly. "Does this a lot, does he?" he added in commiseration.

"All the time," Watson sighed. "Sorry."

"No no - it's fine. It's… _brilliant_, actually," the Doctor added, abruptly turning much more cheerful.

"It's my job," Sherlock said quietly, his eyes smiling where his face did not. "Of sorts."

"Well, you're very good at it. And your friend John, here?"

"Colleague," Watson supplied.

"Blogger," Sherlock corrected.

"_Companion_," the Doctor grinned. "So he's John. And you live in London, making a living out of observing and deducing and-. _Hang on_," he heaved, his face changing to an expression that could have turned milk. He looked at Watson, then nodded to his wrist. "What year is this?"

Watson almost glanced at his wrist before realising he didn't need to. "2011," he said dumbly. "Why?"

"Because you're John Watson, am I right?" the Doctor went on, his face screwed up in bafflement. "And he's Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly. "Do you read the internet wherever it is you're from?"

The Doctor turned his attention on him, looking him up and down as he circled him quickly. "Now I'm confused," he said loudly, coming to a stop behind the consulting detective. "How are you here?"

"We walked," Watson offered.

Sherlock didn't turn, but his eyes rolled to one side, as if listening intently. "Why are you surprised we are who we are?" he asked slowly.

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson," the Gallifreyan said clearly, looking them both up and down again before rubbing a hand into the hair at the back of his head, hissing in sudden discomfort. He wandered back round in front of Sherlock. "Only… you two were fictional."

"Were?" Watson echoed.

"He travels in time, John," Sherlock reminded him testily. "He's probably speaking fourth-dimensionally."

"Oh right, yes. Sorry," Watson politely, shaking his head. "Wait - what _are_ you talking about?" he added in a rather frustrated voice.

"Seen '_Back To The Future_'?" the Doctor hazarded.

"What's that got to do with-. Oh," Watson blurted. Then he blinked. "Are you serious?"

"As a DeLorean."

"And a load of Libyans?"

"Yup," the Doctor grinned.

"Oh," Watson managed, rather quietly.

"Good grief," Sherlock mused, eyeing the two of them. "Someone who speaks John Watson."

"And you two were made up by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, around… ooh, the 1890s," the Doctor added, peering at Sherlock.

"I do understand time on my own planet and I can assure you that would be impossible," Sherlock said mildly. "You can see me standing here, right now. Want to see some ID?"

"No…" The Doctor scrubbed his hand over his chin, then folded one arm across him to give the attached elbow something to lean on. "Hmm…"

"Shouldn't we be asking him questions?" Watson said overly politely. "Like 'what's your interest in this candlestick that just happened to be stolen this afternoon from the Victoria and Albert Museum?'"

"It's not a candlestick," the Doctor put in.

Sherlock looked at Watson, rather amused. Then he turned back to the Doctor. "Can we assume for the moment that you're more interested in finding out what happened to the _alleged_ candlestick than avoiding _our_ questions?" he asked.

"Ah, now, you should never assume," the Doctor said with a smile, letting his hands drop. "It makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'."

"I thought if you removed 'u' and 'em', all you were left with was an ass," he replied smartly.

The Doctor inclined his head. "True."

"Whatever - can we get in out of the bloody cold?" Watson said. "We can stand here and yak all night, but I'd be frozen to the pavement before I understood half of what you two are on about."

"Quite right," the Doctor said. "Hope you've got tea at your gaff. 221B, isn't it?"

"How did you know that?" Watson asked with trepidation.

"Read it in a book!" he cried stoutly, kicking the 'k' from the back of this throat with glee. Watson opened his mouth but the Doctor was already going to the edge of the pavement and letting out a piercing whistle. A hackney carriage sprang forth from nowhere, to the impressed relief of the other two men. "Come on then - this is 'Act I - Sherlock And Watson Take A Cab With A Stranger'," he grinned.

Watson looked up at Sherlock. "He's off his nut. And he's an alien. And he knows where we live."

"All good observations," Sherlock breathed. "But you left out the most important one."

"I dread to ask."

"He's also a complete mystery."

His eyes glittered slightly, his expression tightened in indescribable anticipation, and he rubbed his gloved hands together in a way that suggested it had absolutely nothing to do with the cold.

Watson rolled his eyes. "Think I might take to drinking," he sighed, following the taller man toward the waiting cab.

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_**Thanks for reading so far!**_


	2. Watson Makes Tea For Three

**Act II - Watson Makes Tea For Three**

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Sherlock heaved the front door open to 221B, striding in and not even bothering to unbutton his coat before he leapt up the stairs two at a time.

A familiar voice floated out to greet the Doctor and Watson as the shorter man closed the door, gesturing politely to the upstairs landing.

"Coo-ee! Is that you, Doctor Watson?" Mrs Hudson called, poking her head round the staircase as she approached. "Oh it is. And a house guest. Another doctor, is he?"

"Actually, yes, I am," the Doctor beamed, putting his hand out as his face stretched into the daffiest, most welcoming grin in existence. Mrs Hudson smiled, shaking his hand briefly. His eyes narrowed just slightly. "And would be… Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes dear, his landlady," she admitted, somewhat surprised but also willing to let it go, smiling up at the man whom she apparently considered unexpectedly good-looking. She tilted her head apologetically to see round his shoulder. "Doctor Watson, could you have a word with Sherlock?"

"What's he done now?" Watson sighed.

"Well - it's not very important, I know, but I think he's commandeered my kettle. It was here last night but this morning it'd disappeared. I've had an awful job making tea," she said, wringing her hands. "Could you have a word?"

"I am so sorry, Mrs Hudson," Watson said immediately, coming forward and putting a hand on her shoulder. "I'll get it back for you."

"No hurry," she said lamely, as he and the Doctor turned and began to climb the stairs. "Oh, I didn't get your name, Doctor," she called up after the gentleman in the long brown coat.

"Neither did I," he called back, waving a cheery hand over his shoulder.

Mrs Hudson shook her head and went back round to her kitchen, determined to stop asking.

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Watson found the door to the sitting room wide open and waved the taller Doctor in first. The Gallifreyan wandered in, hands in his pockets, his large eyes scanning the room voraciously.

"It's just like the books," he marvelled under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what?" Watson asked, going past him and heading for the door to the kitchenette on the left.

"Oh, don't mind me," he said cheerfully, turning to watch the angular detective in the armchair.

Sherlock had eschewed his long coat and perched himself on the balls of his feet in the chair rather like a kestrel watching for mice far below - except the mice were two copies of the Yellow Pages, apparently open at the same page and balanced rather precariously on an assortment of miscellanea atop a wide wooden stool. His elbows, at home in his raised knees, supported his interlocked hands up against his lips, as if in prayer, as he stared at the book on his right.

Watson's head appeared round the doorjamb of the kitchenette. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," he said flatly.

Sherlock made no reply, wholly engrossed in his ostensibly blank staring.

The tall Doctor, however, looked over. "What is it?"

"There's blood in Mrs Hudson's kettle," Watson protested. "Blood! You do realise people boil water in these things to make it suitable to _drink_?"

"There are in excess of two billion kettles in the world, John," Sherlock muttered, pre-occupied.

"And none of them in her kitchen," he shot back. "Don't worry - _I'll_ clean it up and return it."

"Don't touch it. I need the blood inside to congeal."

"Ugh," Watson managed in surrender, going to the other, chrome kettle and checking the insides before half-filling it from the tap.

The Doctor wandered behind Sherlock's chair, looking over his shoulder.

"You're in my light," Sherlock announced.

"You don't need light, you're not reading those pages," he observed, his mouth tweaking to one side as he sniffed rather matter-of-factly.

Sherlock's face didn't move but his eyes darted up, latching onto the door frame dead opposite his chair. A whole minute passed. "Tell me about this candlestick-looking item that you need and someone stole," he said briskly.

"It's not a candlestick."

Watson, in the kitchen finding mugs, hesitated as he began to listen more to the pseudo-conversation in the front room than the kettle trying to boil next to him.

"Obviously. Someone who has the technology to travel in time and space wouldn't _need_ a candlestick," came Sherlock's toneless voice.

"Unless I have candles."

Watson smiled, he couldn't help it. He put down a teaspoon and went to the doorjamb of the kitchenette, folding his arms and watching the two men. The Doctor looked up instantly, assessed the look on the medical doctor's face, and winked cheekily.

Sherlock lifted his chin, resting it on his hands for a second before twisting to look at the man between the window and himself. "Describe the item you want."

The Doctor ambled over to the mantelpiece with his hands in his pockets, bending to look at the tiny accoutrements upon it. "It looks like a candlestick."

There was a long silence.

"If you want my help to find it, you'll have to tell me more than that. What exactly is it?" Sherlock persisted, sounding very much as if he had come to the buffers at the end of his personal railroad marked 'patience'.

"It's a lenticular alignment feed generator," the Doctor said mildly, bending to see a rather angry-looking Swiss Army Knife. He slid a hand inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses, slipping them on to find the knife half covered in dried mud.

"What does that mean?" Watson asked politely.

The Doctor looked at him. "Does what it says on the tin," he smiled.

Watson shook his head and turned back to the kettle and the three mugs, beginning the serious business of making proper soldier tea, now that the kettle was whistling to advertise its readiness.

"It aligns lenses and broadcasts the co-ordinates?" Sherlock asked. "Why is it important? Who'd want to steal one of those?"

"Someone who wants to align lenses and broadcast the co-ordinates!" Watson called rather sarcastically from the kitchen.

The Doctor pointed at him but looked at Sherlock. "I like him. He's a thinker."

"Comparatively," Sherlock allowed with a little puff of air that was impossible to decipher. "Lenses. Why lenses?"

"Wrong 'lenticular'," the Doctor said, peeling off his heavy coat and flinging it at the coffee table on his right. It flew straight and landed perfectly. Sherlock did not appear to notice. Instead he scrutinised the tall man as he flumped down into the comfortable chair opposite him. "Lenticular as in a galaxy - a galaxy halfway between elliptical and spiral, one that's used up or misplaced most of its interstellar matter. It's actually a misnomer - the galaxies don't need to be lenticular."

"It aligns entire galaxies?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"Could do. And yes, it locks the co-ordinates and sends the info off to the mapping people."

"Mapping people?" Watson asked, appearing round the side of the chair to hand him a cup of tea.

"Ooh, thanks," the Doctor said eagerly, taking it and looking up at him. "The stellar charts, the maps of the universe - such as we know it - are recorded by various people. Just like you lot using Hubbles and NASA STEREOs and things to make maps of your night sky."

"Right," Watson said with scathing softness, raising his eyebrows in Sherlock's oblivious direction before going back to the kitchen. He came back with two mugs, handing one to Sherlock before sipping at his, leaning against the windowsill.

"So what is its value?" Sherlock asked.

"Would anyone pay money for it?" Watson said sceptically.

"Not money, John. Its _value_," Sherlock said slowly, eyeing the Doctor. "Who would be after it?"

The Gallifreyan sipped his tea. "Och, that's good," he gushed, looking at Watson. "This is the best tea I've had in… what year are we in again?"

"2011," Watson supplied, amused.

"Then it's the best tea I've had since 1599," he nodded, sipping it again.

Watson shook his head. "Look, I hate to sound rude, but really, could you tell us something about this candlestick thing? It's been a long day and I'm hoping there's normality in my very immediate future-"

"Dull," Sherlock breathed, barely audibly.

Watson ignored him. "I mean, I'm enjoying watching you spite him until his head explodes - really I am," he said to the Doctor earnestly, catching the way Sherlock's head turned and the detective considered him with curiosity. "But this would be quicker if you just got on with it."

The Doctor made an effort to hide his grin behind his mug, but no mug in the universe would have been wide enough to take the job on. He sipped once, twice. Then he sniffed and sat back. "Ok, you asked for it," he said simply, a slightly whimsical smile on his face. "I know someone who needs a new lenticular alignment feed generator, and I know there is - _was_ - one in the Victoria and Albert museum," he began patiently. "So I popped over to get it."

"Ignoring silly questions like 'where from?' and 'who needed it?', I'll go straight on to 'do you think they would have come to get it themselves?'," Watson said politely.

"They're not the type to steal stuff," the Doctor allowed. "And even if they did, they couldn't come themselves - no capacity for travel."

"Who else would want this instrument?" Sherlock asked curtly. "Does it have any other practical applications?"

"Not really," the Doctor admitted. "But it's a lenticular alignment feed generator, it doesn't _need_ any other practical applications."

"Explain," Sherlock tutted.

"It aligns galaxies, planets, anything you want - regardless of mass."

"When you say 'align'," Watson said, "you mean 'move'. Right?"

"Yes."

"Ok," he said brightly, before checking his watch to find it was already eight o'clock. "I've had my tea and I think this conversation just went right into Weekly World News territory. So I'll say I have things to be getting on with, don't touch his violin, and good luck the pair of you," he announced, walking past them and putting the cup in the kitchen sink.

The Doctor watched him give a single nod of the head before disappearing out of the open door and up the stairs. Then the alien turned to find the consulting detective's eyes clapped on him as barnacles to a ship's hull. He just waited.

Sherlock opened his mouth. "Assuming you're not suffering from any form of delusion-"

"I thought we agreed not to assume."

"Then as I can be _reasonably sure_ you're not suffering from any kind of delusion, how can I believe-"

"Everything I've told you is the truth," the Doctor said clearly, sitting forward in the chair. He pulled off his glasses slowly, folding the arms in as he watched his hands. He slipped the glasses back into his inside jacket pocket, resting his elbows on his knees. "I've taken a giant leap of faith, considering I believe you're a fictional character in a Christmas annual published over one hundred and twenty years ago."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He said nothing, but the Doctor distinctly heard huge cogs and wheels whirring at unimaginable speeds under the tousled dark hair.

Sherlock distinctly heard the litany rattling itself off in his own head:

_Is he really an alien to this planet? Yes: see earlier evidence. Is he telling the truth? What reason would he have to lie - insufficient data to form hypothesis; so, get facts then. Alien comes to Earth, needs the item, unaware someone has already stolen it. Does he believe Earth-based thieves stole it? Yes: he's not running back to his ship to chase after-_ "Where's your spaceship?" he blurted out loud.

"My 'spaceship'?" the Doctor smiled.

"Yes. You travel in time but also space - ergo, you and whatever travelling necessities you carry with you need a vessel of some shape or description. Obviously it's disguised or people would be reporting it to the police, seeing as it must be parked somewhere near Marylebone. The mapping system isn't that great or you would have landed in Kensington near the museum, not almost in Marylebone, wandering around looking for a landmark to get your bearings. However, it must be good at searching for things across an incalculably wide area or you wouldn't have been able to verify that the item you seek was still in the museum before making your way over here to get it. If it's good at searching for things over a wide area, it would be a simple matter to go back to the ship and use it find where the item is right now - so why don't you? Perhaps you don't believe it's left this planet yet and so maybe it's because the item is easy to find from a distance but not up close - see previous theory on it not having left the planet or even the city." He paused, leaning his pursed lips on his clasped hands for a moment. "Thoughts so far?" he breathed.

The Doctor favoured him with an engaging smile. "Yes, I am an alien. Yes, I have reasons to lie but you have no idea where to start hazarding what they might be."

He watched Sherlock's face do its best to hide his surprise, and then took a deep breath.

"All I can say is: no, I'm not lying. Yes, I think humans here on Earth stole it - because if it were aliens they wouldn't still be here but no ships have left recently, so I do think it's still on the planet-"

"How do you know no ships have left?"

The Doctor fished in his pocket and then raised a silver instrument in his hand. "My screwdriver says so."

Sherlock frowned at it, then him. "Go on."

"Yes, I checked it was still here before I arrived, and no, I can't search for it once I'm within the planet's atmosphere - my ship's very old and some of the scanners aren't what they used to be." He sighed, a little sadly. "And yes, I need you to help me to find it. I don't know who's taken it, but it can't be for a good thing."

"You said it's capable of moving entire planets, even galaxies," Sherlock said quietly.

"Yes."

"Could it be used to move this one? From here?"

"No," the Doctor said seriously. "You need to choose a planet other than the one you're on, if you want to move it."

"Thank Nicorette patches for small mercies," Sherlock said suddenly, getting up and going to the window opposite the door to the sitting room. One hand went into his trouser pocket, the other nudged the heavy curtain to one side, and he looked out at the night street below.

"You don't seem at all fazed that I'm supposed to be an alien and I'm talking about planets, stars and galaxies," the Doctor said easily.

"You don't seem at all fazed that I'm supposed to be a fictional character in a newspaper you read over a hundred years ago," he agreed, turning to look over his shoulder at him. "By the way, which 'hundred years' was that?"

The Doctor laced his hands over his suit, settling back into the comfortable chair. "You seem real enough right now."

"As do you." He looked back out of the window. "I suppose I'll have to believe what you've told me. Half of it stands up to scrutiny."

"And the other half?" the Doctor smiled.

"Where you come from or what you purport to be is of little consequence to me," Sherlock said under his breath, as if to himself, as he watched the street. "Although, if you're telling us the absolute truth it looks like you should be worrying about this missing candlestick - but you're not."

"Looks can be deceiving," the Doctor smiled.

"Rarely," he scoffed.

"You look like you should be ginger but you're not."

"And you look like you should be Scottish but you're not," Sherlock shot back, albeit quietly. There was no reply and he turned to appraise the lanky gentleman in the brown pin-striped suit, watching him and smiling. Sherlock gave a slight 'hmm' and went back to eyeing the street. "What are you waiting for?" he mused. "What do you want?"

"To see if you're really Sherlock Holmes." The Doctor paused. "What do _you_ want?"

"The mystery."

"You mean the mystery _solved_."

"Well… that too."

"So any ideas how we start locating the generator?"

"It's… already… taken care of," Sherlock muttered, totally, quietly, and in every other way lost to the goings-on of the street outside.

The Doctor opened his mouth, but suddenly Sherlock whisked the window open and bent out by at least forty-five degrees.

"Twenty quid!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

The Doctor got up slowly, intrigued, but Sherlock leaned back in and shut the window briskly. There was a slight thump from upstairs and then a muffled male voice shouted: '_Sherlock! Don't be a git!_"

He ignored the admonishment, instead dodging round the Doctor to go to the door and before the Gallifreyan knew it, he was scooting down the stairs. He took off after him, not even bothering to snatch up his brown coat from the opposite side of the room.

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**_Again, thanks for reading! And thanks for your comments; they're like gold dust. I do a little happy dance if I get one. :)_**


	3. Irregular Times Call For

**Act III: Irregular Times Call For Irregular People**

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.

Sherlock opened the door to the street and stuck his head into the night air. "Well?"

A girl, lean of appearance and impatient of attitude, pushed past him and headed for the stairs. She ignored him as she simply brushed past the Doctor on the stairs, disappearing into the room at the top. Sherlock followed her in a rather spritely rush, the Doctor smiling to himself before catching up.

He came to the room to see it empty, and followed the sounds of tinkling and fridge doors. He followed he noises to snake his head round the doorjamb of the kitchenette, finding Sherlock, arms folded resolutely, watching the girl swing a long blond ponytail out of the side of her face. She appeared to be invested in the act of creating a sandwich large enough to sate a pair of lions in London Zoo as the kettle boiled away happily next to her left elbow.

"Well?" Sherlock repeated.

"Make it twenty-five," she said easily, slapping the last of the house's cheese onto the pile of lettuce and sliced ham atop a doorstop of bread. She went back to the fridge and took out a squeezy bottle of mayonnaise. "Nice. Did your boyfriend buy it ya?"

"My _blogger_ bought it," Sherlock said firmly.

"Whatever," she smiled, upending it to douse the edible mess beneath in man-made mayonnaise nirvana with a rather rude raspberry from the bottle.

"Twenty-five quid then," Sherlock agreed, reaching out and taking the mayonnaise from her before she managed to empty the nearly-new container. She tutted but otherwise ignored him as he righted it and slapped the cap shut. "Well?"

"I haven't heard nothin'," she said, lifting another doorstop and roofing the sandwich with it. She picked it all up carefully and took a huge bite that would have scared any beach-goer at Amity Island.

"_Any_thing," Sherlock corrected absently, making the Doctor smile slightly. "Are you sure? It was taken from the V and A earlier today. Looks like a useless candlestick."

She chomped on the sandwich as the Doctor went around them both, making a fresh cup of tea.

"Who's this bloke?" she asked around a mouthful of food.

"An acquaintance," Sherlock said irritably.

"Well he's better looking than your other boyfriend," she breezed.

"Look, do you want twenty-five pounds or not?" Sherlock snapped impatiently.

"Yeah, I do," she nodded, taking another huge bite. "Just can't 'elp you, Mr Holmes. No idea. Never heard of no candlestick."

Sherlock's face twisted into irritation and he opened his mouth. However, the hesitation of wondering if grammar-policing were worth it kicked in, prompting him to huff and shake his head, letting it go. "Fine. Then perhaps when you _do_ hear something, you'd be good enough to be useful," he said swiftly. He put a hand out and hooked it through her arm, turning to pull her from the kitchen.

"I ain't had me tea!" she protested.

"No information, no tea," Sherlock said brusquely.

"Hang on a minute," the Doctor called. "She could at least get the sandwich down her neck."

"Yeah, see?" she said with a huff, tugging her arm free. She looked up at the Doctor. "Least you has a heart - more'n this morbid sod's got."

"I'm busy, and you're not helpful in any way," Sherlock said simply.

The Doctor looked from him to the girl. "Where do you live? Perhaps you could call us if you hear anything."

She turned a large smile on him, until she took another bite of her food. "I don't have no phone," she allowed, the amount of food in her cheeks enough to make a hamster proud. "You need a fixed address for one of them proper ones."

"Then… where do you sleep?" the Gallifreyan asked, his face slowly settling into one of annoyed concern.

"Wherever I want," she said defensively. She looked at Sherlock. "If something happens, I'll tell you, alright?"

"Fine," he nodded. "Come on, you're taking up thinking time." He put a hand out to push at her in raging impatience.

But the Doctor's arm came out and he blocked the other man's way. "Just wait," he said firmly. "It's cold outside. Let her have the tea."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in apparent confusion, before he turned away and crossed to the window. His long, thin fingers rested on the handle and abruptly it became obvious to the others in the room that nothing short of a four-minute warning alarm would be able to encroach upon his inner thoughts. The Doctor eyed him before turning his attention back to the girl.

"Don't worry about him," she said quietly, winking at the Timelord. "He's a bit funny in the 'ead. Think he's maybe a robot under that take-you-apart-for-study face. You watch him, you'll see what I mean," she nodded.

"Right," the Doctor breathed.

He chatted to her as she finished her sandwich, and then her tea. Sherlock remained immobile, staring out of the window. Eventually, the girl left and the Doctor retreated to the table between the windows, picking up the first newspaper he saw and opening it up.

.

* * *

.

Watson fairly bounced down the stairs, his humour much restored by his recent private conversation as he turned right and opened the door to the sitting room, walking through with a very slight hum under his breath. Entering the kitchenette, his hands went out automatically to set the kettle to boil and two slices of bread to hover over the toaster. He paused, realising something was about to make it impossible to get one of the slices in.

He put both hands on the counter, peered at the toaster, and then groaned, looking straight up at the ceiling.

"Sher_looooooock!_" he called wearily.

"Been talking to Sarah?" was Sherlock's barely audible response.

Watson kept his mouth shut against the rude rejoinder that threatened to spill forth and embarrass him, and it was then that he looked to his right, to find his flatmate stood by the window, watching the outside world. Then he noticed a brown-haired head just taller than the backrest of his adopted armchair, enjoying a newspaper open at the middle pages.

Watson cleared his throat. "Sherlock!" he tried again. "There's a leather wallet in the toaster!"

"Well done," the detective muttered to the window.

"I said, there's a-"

"Yes John, I heard you!" he called back, suddenly willing to raise his voice. "Leave it, I need it for a very important experi-"

"No!" Watson warned. "No no no no no! I will not go without supper just because you want to measure how long it takes for a bloody credit card to melt, or _whatever it is_ you're obsessing over now!" he hurled angrily.

"In a domestic toaster? About forty-two minutes," the Doctor put in helpfully from his position of comfort.

Sherlock whirled to look at him. "Forty-two?"

He bent the right corner of his newspaper down to see over it. "A typical toaster, yes," he nodded.

"Oh." Sherlock looked back at the window, but his right hand came up over his shoulder in a dismissive wave. "Take it out, John."

Watson was already tipping the appliance upside down, shaking it to get the offending article out. There was a _thunk_ and a sigh, and then tinkling and clicking told them some serious toasting was underway. "Any progress?" he asked.

"No change. Obviously," Sherlock said slowly with deliberate clarity, his breath steaming up the glass slightly.

"Right. I'll be back down in two minutes. Do not touch my toast," Watson said firmly, before disappearing out of the room and back up the stairs.

The room lapsed into silence once more, all of the Doctor's attention on a slim silver instrument he was attempting to rub clean with the tail end of his shirt. The room was content to let it all slide by until the kettle began to whistle. Sherlock drifted toward it, his eyes distinctly unfocused as his mind wrestled with the arguments pertaining to the hypothesis of differing makes of glass cutters sharing common manufacturing sources, consequently making it harder to trace the exact manufacturer or date of creation with less than three scratches to go on. He turned off the gas just as the toast jumped up from the appliance. He put a hand out and, without even looking, took one slice and jammed it in the corner of his mouth. He turned and went back to the window to munch on it idly. To the Doctor's experienced eye, this appeared more to do with the relevant parts of his anatomy being on autopilot that any connection to feelings of hunger or need.

Watson came back down the stairs, going round to the kitchenette and making himself a cup of tea. He went to the fridge, brought out the butter-dish, and set it on the table. Then he turned to the toaster and found the solitary surviving slice of toast waiting for him.

He sighed, took it anyway, and dotted it with lumps of hard butter that still hadn't melted by the time he was looking for a clean plate to use. In the end he gave up, eating the toast as fast as he dared, lest it get itself stolen too.

His eyes caught movement from Sherlock and he looked up. The other man was opening the window and leaning out. He appeared to wave a hand before displaying fingers in some strange pattern. Watson shook his head but picked his tea up protectively as he heard the downstairs door open and Mrs Hudson's voice.

Feet on the stairs made all three of them look at the open door.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, a very familiar worrying tone to her voice, "there's a lad here to see you."

"Yes yes, I know." He came forward, stopping just short of bowling the young man over. "Well?"

"Now wait a minute," he said quickly, his hands up. "Abbi said there was twenty quid in it for me."

"Twenty-five if you tell me something verifiable and useful," Sherlock rattled off. "Now."

Mrs Hudson shook her head and retreated back down the stairs. The Doctor got up from the armchair slowly, watching everything with big eyes focused on the boy.

"Cool. Right then. There's this bloke, see, and he rocks up like half an hour ago and says he's lookin' for a candlestick."

"Who?"

"Dunno - just some bloke. From the city, I think, way he spoke. Business suit an' all that. He says he'll give us a tonne if we tell 'im where he can find it."

"_How_ would he give you a hundred pounds?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"He says he'll be at the bridge tonight, waitin' for news," the boy replied innocently. "Me and Gemma'll be waitin'. We want to split it."

"How romantic," Sherlock said crisply. "What time?"

"He said eleven. Said he was busy 'fore that."

Sherlock looked at his watch quickly. "That's in thirty minutes." His eyes went back to the boy. "So where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"The candlestick! The candlestick the man asked you for!" he cried.

"Dunno. No-one's seen it, but Abbi said you only asked her like an hour ago. Not even we can get news that fast, mate."

Sherlock pouted at the floor.

"Can I have my twenty-five quid now?" the youth asked pointedly.

Sherlock snapped his fingers at Watson. Twice.

Watson just looked back at him. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said deliberately dumbly. "Did you want something?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and the impatient way his shoulders went up and out straight told the others in the room just how close he was to giving his frustration free rein. He put his right hand out, palm up, and twitched the fingers closed and open over and over with intense irritation.

Watson pouted at the palm. Then, very slowly, he turned and put his cup down on the kitchenette table. He wandered back again as leisurely as he could, before finding his wallet in his jeans pocket. He snapped the popper open and looked inside. "I've only got fifteen quid," he said maliciously, raising his eyes to Sherlock's.

He fumed, but the Doctor was already feeling through his right trouser pocket. "Now, hang on, let me see what I've got," he said loudly, pulling out a very antiquated fold-over wallet, made either of leather or the strangest carpet swatch known to sentient life-forms. He pulled it open and rifled through what appeared to be all manner of paper items. "A Caprican cubit, no… Arkturian dollar? No. Ooh - couple of pound notes - guess they'll be out of date now. _Oh!_ Here we go - twenty pounds, the new one." He slid it out and proferred it to the lad watching him with wide eyes.

"Thanks," the boy said. Watson came forward and handed him a five pound note. "I'll be off then. You wants anything else, you ask me, ok?"

"Go," Sherlock said testily, waving him toward the door. The boy swept out, closing the door behind him.

"Just once, it'd be nice if you paid your own people," Watson said meaningfully.

"So that's another Baker Street Irregular," the Doctor grinned to himself. "Nice."

"A what?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing, don't mind me," the Doctor said happily.

"Don't forget, he owes you twenty pounds," Watson warned.

"Oh it's only money," Sherlock said dismissively, going back to the window. He turned suddenly and snatched up his coat. "Well let's go - the bridge."

"What bridge? Where?" Watson demanded, lost.

"I know which one. Come on - let's see who this man is, shall we?"

.

* * *

.

The taxi ride was short but definitely not sweet, as the Doctor deemed it safer to sit in between the others. Watson made a few pointed remarks regarding everyone else's sanity, but Sherlock's attention was definitely out to lunch - if lunch included heavy symposiums on the diverse patterns made by different years of Bridgestone tyres for a whole range of public service vehicles between the years 2005 and 2011.

After a good fifteen minutes of stiff silence, the Doctor paid the fare and they climbed out to find themselves under a rather dingy, stinking bridge next to a spectacularly unremarkable river.

"Nice," Watson said with sarcastic cheer, pulling his jacket tighter and plunging his hands into his pockets. "You do know all the most charming spots."

"I didn't realise you thought of it as a date," Sherlock shot back petulantly.

The Doctor brought himself up to Sherlock's shoulder. "Now now," he admonished. "We're early. We'll see all the exciting stuff soon enough. Where are we supposed to be hiding?"

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and strode off. Watson followed, casting a look at the taller doctor.

"Sorry about him. He's a bit lacking in social graces," he offered.

"Don't worry about it. That's why he's got you."

Watson glanced at him but they walked on in companionable silence. Catching up with the grumpy detective, they found themselves concealed under the side of a tall bridge of indescribable smell. Watson managed to avoid touching the metal and stone-clad arch by his shoulder, but the Doctor next to him put a finger straight out and against the mulchy, rotting surface, licking the tip in thought.

"Excuse me, could you _not_ do that please?" Watson asked politely. "It makes me want to heave."

" 'Course, sorry," the Gallifreyan replied.

"Sshh!" Sherlock hissed irritably. "This isn't a school trip!"

The other two shared a glance that small boys at the back of the school bus have been using for fifty years or more before clearing their throats and pretending they were being serious. Sherlock took a step back suddenly, forcing the two behind him to shrink further into the shadows.

"There's Brian. And Gemma," he whispered, as two figures sloped into view on the muddy bank. They wandered together, it seemed, hand-in-hand and apparently listless. Finally they came to a stop just forty or so yards from the bridge. The young lad turned his head for a moment, just a moment, but it made Sherlock smile to himself. "Clever boy," he murmured. "He's checking we're watching all this."

They waited in silence.

Minutes passed. Then more. Time just kept coming and coming, rolling past unchecked. Watson lifted his wrist and pushed the jacket back to peer at his watch in the darkness. Eventually he sussed out the hands.

"It's nearly half past eleven," he whispered. "Do you think he's still coming? Maybe he saw Brian come to up to the flat earlier."

"Sshh," Sherlock managed softly. "Look."

They stared, fascinated, as a lone figure came along the riverbank. The water lapped gently, the stars peeked out from behind vast grey clouds, and even the moon got in on the action, reflecting down on the three people visible on the bank.

The newcomer walked briskly, a large, dark coloured coat wrapping him up against the cold of the evening. He came to a stop a good ten feet from the two youngsters, his hands deep in his coat pockets.

"I don't like this," Watson whispered.

The man lifted a single hand - his right - from his pocket. The moonlight glinted rather dully on the finish of a handgun. Watson began to move but Sherlock's shoulder jutted into his path deliberately, holding him back.

"You said you wanted the candlestick, man," came the young man's voice. "Don't you want it?"

"You haven't got it," was the loud, gruff response.

"Nah, but I know who has," Brian shot back. "You want it? You better give us the hundred quid and stop playing with that toy."

"What do you know?" the man said slowly.

"Fella called Pratt, down Covent Garden. He's got it," he said proudly. "Now where's my tonne?"

The man considered. And considered.

"Give him the money," Sherlock muttered to himself. "Come on, be a thief with a code."

The man let the gun drop to his right side, his other hand coming out of his pocket.

Watson was aware of a tiny buzzing noise, a strange blue light from somewhere by the taller doctor's side. He ignored it, watching the three people on the bank.

"John, Sherlock," the Doctor said quickly. "That's not money."

"What?" Sherlock blurted.

The Doctor pushed the other man out of his way, rushing out from under the bridge.

"Doctor!" Sherlock protested angrily. He tried to grab his coat.

"Brian! Gemma! Run for it!" the Gallifreyan shouted.

Right before the man on the bank raised his left hand, raining blinding light over the entire area.

Everyone ducked, stumbled.

Except Watson.

His hand slapped itself over his eyes in some vestige of army training. He rushed forward. By the time he could see without his fingers blocking most of the view, he had nearly stumbled over two people on the bank. He dropped to his knees, rolling them over and checking the pulse of the girl first.

He gasped out relief, turning to Brian and finding that he, too, had a strong pulse. He leant his weight on his right knee, looking around to try to locate anyone else on the bank. He saw two figures trying to stagger up blindly from the grassy mire.

He took a deep breath. "Sher-!"

Something smacked into the back of his head. He remembered he was _not_ wearing a standard-issue army helmet just as he hit the muddy ground.

.


	4. Let's Look Through The Rectangular Windo

**Act IV: Let's Look Through The Rectangular Window**

.

Watson opened his eyes and something told him he should be making inquiries as to where he was. Finding himself face-down on the floor of a rather run-down room, he breathed a sigh of relief that he was neither bound nor gagged. He got up but then felt a wave of heat and disorientation pass over him. His hands went to his knees quickly and he bent over, concentrating on breathing.

Presently he looked up from his lower vantagepoint, assessing the room. Barely twenty feet by twenty, the sad wallpaper had faded and begun to peel a long time ago, but the damp and apparent water damage had attacked the wainscotting in a bigger way. His searching eyes tripped over a door. He began to cross to it but then halted quickly as the bare floorboard under his foot creaked in an alarming manner.

He squeezed his eyes shut and waited. Nothing moved. He opened his eyes again and went to the exit, putting his hand on the doorknob and trying to turn it slowly. It refused to budge more than halfway and he cursed under his breath, wrenching at it a few more times just to be sure. Finally he conceded defeat, letting go and just glaring at the knob as if he could melt it off through sheer frustration.

Casting his eyes around in despair, he spotted one window, a wide dirty excuse for glass panels leaded together in an old-fashioned example of keeping the world out. He went to it quickly, pulling his sleeve over the heel of his hand and rubbing at one of the panes furiously.

A small circle scraped clear and he looked out. A river, a bridge, darkness. He frowned at the lamp far below, wondering how many floors up he was.

He heard the door move behind him and jumped to see.

The man from the bank swept the door open and ambled in, the heavy coat still wrapped around him. He paused in the doorway and looked Watson up and down.

Watson straightened his back and tried to bring himself up to his full height. His jaw took on its best no-nonsense superhero stance and he waited with a look on his face that could only have been described as unimpressed. "Well?" he demanded, studying the man's height, his apparent width, his tanned face and dark eyes.

The man smiled slightly. "Are you Adam?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

"Sorry, no."

"Then you must be Jamie. Or Ian. Or… Mickey?"

"Do I look like a 'Mickey'?" Watson snapped. "Who are _you_?"

"I need that lenticular alignment feed generator," he said. "Where is it?"

"I don't know. I've never even seen it," Watson shot back.

"Keep lying, it doesn't matter," he shrugged. "Your friend will come for you. And he'll bring it to me."

"He doesn't have it," Watson asserted. "He's going to find it though. And whatever it is you're up to, he'll stop you."

"I don't think so," the man smiled, his dark hair brown swishing across an eye carelessly. "I _am_ going to get what I want. And your friend - and that amateur detective he's picked up - will _not_ be getting in my way."

Watson let his mouth hang open for a full second whilst his brain sorted it all out. "Wait - you think the Doctor is-"

"Good evening," the man said smartly, retreating and closing the door swiftly.

Watson stared after him, then shook his head. He patted at his pocket hurriedly, pulling out the mobile phone and pressing the 'menu' button. He lifted it, found no signal, and cursed under his breath. He went back to the window, moving the phone about in the vain hope that it would magically find at least one bar. He pressed the 9 key once before he realised he didn't even have enough of a signal to get an emergency call through.

"At least I don't seem to be in any immediate danger," he breathed to himself, pushing the phone back into his pocket. "Yet."

.

* * *

.

The door to 221B slammed shut behind the two men, both of whom paused on the downstairs landing.

"Damn! So close! So close and we couldn't put a hand on him!" Sherlock blurted, pacing about in a circle as he hissed angry reproaches at himself.

"Look, he stunned the entire bank - there was no way we could have-"

"Stop talking!" Sherlock shouted curtly, coming to a complete stop and pressing his palms together in thought. "He didn't take Brian or Gemma even though they would have been the best candidates - Brian lied - not that he knew at the time - told him he knew where the generator was, even gave him a fake address. Why didn't he take Brian? Why didn't he take Gemma to make Brian get the generator _for_ him if he thought Brian was setting some kind of trap? No no no - something's not right," he rattled off, turning and pacing off again.

The Doctor opened his mouth.

"Too many variables!" Sherlock went on, oblivious, as he paced back and forth.

"Sherlock!" came a cheery voice, and Mrs Hudson appeared round the doorframe. "Oh, Doctor. Hello again."

"Hello again, Mrs Hudson," the Doctor said quickly.

"Sherlock," she said apologetically. "I wish you wouldn't leave your window open when you go out. It was blowing a gale till I went up and closed it."

"Window?" Sherlock asked. He shared a curious look with the Doctor before racing up the stairs two at a time, his coat billowing along behind.

"No, no need to thank me," she sighed, disappearing back into her own part of the house.

Sherlock burst into the front room, looking around and cataloguing. "Nothing's been taken," he observed.

The Doctor arrived at the top of the stairs, poking his head in. "How can you tell?"

Sherlock didn't even spare him a glance. "Why break in if you don't intend to steal anything?"

"To leave something behind."

Sherlock whirled to frown at him. The Gallifreyan was looking past him, lifting his hand to point. Sherlock followed his gaze and went over to the window. He found a small grey card stuck in the bottom of the frame. He plucked it free, turning it in his fingers.

"Business card." He raised it closer to his face and sniffed it. "Three or four days in someone's… woollen pocket. Probably a coat. Very dark blue. Heavy." He read the words carefully. "The Seven Suns - Trelani Prime's best hosgat roasts and meshmani beer." He blinked. "Hmm."

The Doctor came over and put his hand out. "May I?"

Sherlock handed him the card. The Timelord read it again slowly, then flipped it over and back again. "That's it?"

"That's enough," Sherlock said, catching the man's attention. "Oh come on - the man on the riverbank left this card on purpose to show that he knows where I live and he can come and go as he pleases. He's got John and he's after the generator - because he knows you want it."

"Oh?"

"Check the world atlas," Sherlock snapped. "I've never heard of a place called Trelani Prime on _this_ planet, and I doubt you'll find any restaurant, pub or noodle-house that sells anything called 'hosgat roast' or 'meshmani beer'. He's been here and he couldn't find it, so he left this card. He's an alien too and he wants the generator for - I don't know - alien taking-over-the-world things," he finished, flapping a hand at him in vague authority.

The Doctor smiled. "You know, you're really rather good at this."

"Not good enough. He's got John."

"We'll get him back," the Doctor said, his face turning decidedly more serious.

"We'd better."

The Doctor's wide eyes went over his face for a few moments. "And I thought people with sociopathic tendencies didn't form attachments."

"Perhaps I only enjoy Antisocial Personality Disorder," he bit out. "And I owe him."

"Oh?"

"He shot someone for me," Sherlock said curtly. The Doctor blinked, but Sherlock waved him off. "Forget it. We need to find him."

"Let me think… Where do we start?" the Gallifreyan asked himself slowly, eyeing the card in his hand still.

Sherlock turned and looked at him. "You can't track the feed generator within the Earth's atmosphere, correct?"

"Correct."

"Can you find _people_?"

"I-." The Doctor paused. "I could." He lifted a long, cylindrical item out of his left pocket, pressing a button on the side. A blue light buzzed away and he watched it for a second. "I can find this alien bloke, now I have a reading on his species - but I can't find John."

"Oh, I think wherever this man is, John will not be far away," he said, already turning to the door of the flat and whisking down the stairs. "Well? Come on!" he called irritably.

The Doctor grinned and hurried after him. "Where are we going then?"

"Your ship. It must be able to pinpoint this man for us."

"She could, yes."

Sherlock hauled the front door open, looking out into the street before the Doctor passed him and headed out into the midnight air.

"Where is it?" Sherlock asked, closing the door behind him. "It is far?"

"Not really," the Doctor said, turning and heading off down the street. Sherlock caught him up. "Oh, I can't wait to see your face, I really can't," the Doctor grinned to himself as they made all speed down the road.

.

* * *

.

Watson shrugged off his jacket and wound it round his left hand and elbow, going to the window. He looked away as he punched his hand into the glass.

It bounced off.

He blinked in surprise before turning to look at it. Covering his face with his right hand, he again hammered at the window. Again his hand and jacket bounced off. He let his protective hand drop and simply pounded at the window over and over.

Finally he gave in and got some breath back, putting his jacket back on in disgust. He turned round in a circle, finding nothing to help him in the room.

Inspiration hit him and he dug his keys out of his pocket, finding the longest one and going back to the window. He jammed the end into the frame, right into a particularly nasty case of rot. The wood gave easily and he pushed the key into it harder, digging away at the barrier. Chunks began to splinter and he chuckled to himself.

"Ha-ha, see?" he grinned, taking a careful grip of the long stake-like arm of wood and pulling it toward him. It came away without much persuasion and he dropped it to the floor.

Within minutes he had made a nice hole in the frame. He grabbed the lowest pane of glass in the window from the gap he had made, using his key to lever the top edge of it against the lead sealant. The pane slipped free and he pulled it clear, grinning at his own perspicacity before removing the other panels. Finally the window was empty of small squares and he rubbed his hands together before sticking his head out of the exit.

He was unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

He pulled back inside sharply, staggering away with his hands up as if to steady himself. He looked around the room, then back at the window. Small, cautious steps took him back up to the window and he put his hands to the frame, more to reassure himself that it was real than keep him upright. His head went back out and he resisted the temptation to shrink away again.

Buttons, switches, levers, panels of controls - they looked back at him from across a corridor outside the window. Small black displays chirped and reeled off numbers, symbols, small diagrams. A hum of power, some metallic scent of machines and burning air made Watson's mouth drop open.

"That's not…" he breathed. "That's not military. It's not… from round here."

His head leaned further out and he looked left and right. A long metal walkway, made up of decking that would not have been out of place on an aircraft carrier, stretched further than the eye could see. He heard distant voices, could not understand the guttural-sounding language as they passed far beyond his view. His eyes went to the ceiling, finding it another decking, a slight green tinge to the entire place.

He pulled back inside the window, bending to pick up one of the fallen panes of glass. He lifted it and squinted, finding the riverbank view perfectly rendered. He crouched and picked up another, and another - finding each pane had the riverbank scene on its surface - and yet the river moved and the wind rustled the dark grass in each one.

He dropped them hurriedly, taking steps back until he was in the middle of the room.

"So… this is a ship," he said professionally, making sure his voice came out steady. "This is a… ship. It's a ship. And this room's been made to look like a room overlooking the river."

He swallowed, sniffed to himself in mild worry, and put his hands in his pockets.

"That explains the lack of phone signal." He cleared his throat, letting his eyes go to his shoes, then the door. "My gun's in my top drawer back at the flat. Brilliant. This is just… brilliant."

He looked around again, shaking his head and going back to the window. He leaned out and stared.

.

* * *

.

The Doctor led Sherlock down a deserted alley, producing a key and sliding it into the Chubb lock on a large blue door. Sherlock took a step back, looking up and round the blue wood, analysing all he saw as he made a complete circle of it. The Doctor waited patiently, then when the other man appeared at the doors again, he opened the right one and waved him in.

Sherlock strode in, cast the large room a cursory glance, and then went straight up to the centre console, walking around it, his eyes searing over every tiny detail of the work surface in voracious curiosity.

The Doctor went in, closed the door, and leaned on it expectantly. He cleared his throat.

"Well? Can we find this man or not?" Sherlock said irritably, his hands going out but unable to choose which button to push or pull first.

The Doctor's smile morphed into an expression of disappointment as he came up to the centre console around the stationary Time Rotor. "No comments? No observations?"

"On what?"

"The ship," the Doctor replied innocently.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, then took a step back. His head remained still but his eyes swivelled around to look around carefully, as if searching for Wally. "It's… uhm… what's that word… _nice_?" he hazarded, his eyes sliding back to the Doctor. _John would know what to say_, his brain told him, realising he was remarkably out of his depth.

The Doctor gaped at him. "Right. Nothing… surprising?" he needled. "Like… the size? Compared to - you know - the outside?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "It's as I expected."

"Expected?" the Doctor spluttered, put out.

"When I saw the outside it was obvious that the inside area had to be a great deal bigger than it appeared or you and your travelling necessities would never fit - not to mention engines or whatever form of propulsion the ship uses," Sherlock reasoned. "I already knew it was disguised, so it follows that it could appear much smaller than it actually is. I would have been more surprised if it had turned out to be a _real_ police box," he added mildly.

"Oh," the Doctor said, crestfallen. "Well. Yes."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he observed the pouting Doctor look down at the console, rub his finger over the edge slightly, then put his hand back in his pocket. "Uhm," the detective said gingerly. "Have I… said something wrong?"

"No no," the Doctor said quickly, looking up. "It's fine."

"Oh."

"Yep," he said, almost overlapping him.

"So this man-"

"Yes! Sorry! This man," the Doctor said instantly, pulling a long silver item from his pocket and pushing the button.

Sherlock watched as he plunged the end with the blue light into a small hole in the console. He pushed a few buttons, wheeled a thumb gauge round a couple of clicks, and then pulled down a lever that looked like it had been borrowed from a one-armed bandit. There was a click and ping, and then he was dashing around to grasp the edges of a hanging monitor. He bit his lip.

"Tricky," he called across, and Sherlock hurried round to see.

"Well?"

"It looks like he's still in the city somewhere - but he must be on a ship, going from these readings. I just can't see where exactly." He moved a small green ball in the surface of the console and the circles and maps on the screen moved. "Somewhere…" He tutted suddenly. "Can't quite trace it. Signal's there, it's just being scattered."

"Try John's phone. It's always on."

The Doctor looked at him - just looked. Then he grinned.

"GPS," they chorused. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, searching the contact list before reading it out. "07517 890531."

"Right, hang on," the Doctor said quickly. "And… And… there's the _phone_… constantly looking for a signal… Can't get the exact location. Something's interfering."

"Is there a way of contacting the phone?" Sherlock demanded.

"Hold on," the Doctor said, whipping across the console, manipulating switches and buttons before coming back to the keyboard underneath the monitor. He turned it toward Sherlock. "You can send him an SMS. Here."

Sherlock put his hand out, his index finger swinging the monitor back toward him. "Send this," he said imperiously, and the Doctor smiled before bending his fingers to the buttons.

"Go on."

.

* * *

_**Thanks for reading, folks! I AM happy dancing because of your comments. :)**_


	5. Stealing The Future

**Act V: Stealing the Future**

.

* * *

.

Watson sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, arms folded, thinking. While a lot of his thoughts and memories were green camouflage tinted, later ones were based in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. He smiled to himself, looking at the floor, weighing up the strangeness of everything that had happened in the few months he had moved in with the most impossible, eccentric lunatic he had ever encountered.

A muffled beep sounded and he was just considering how he could imagine a phone alert at a time like this when he felt the accompanying vibration in his pocket.

He frowned at the door, thought for a moment, and then - very very slowly - put his hand in the pocket and withdrew the phone.

'1 new message'

"You are _kidding_," he breathed, before his thumb pressed the button. He squinted in disbelief at the words that awaited him:

'If asked, say Doctor has generator. Sit tight. SH.'

He looked up again at the door, hoping against hope that whatever had made the message possible would do the same for a reply. Then his eyes flicked back down and his thumb went over the buttons carefully. He pressed 'send' and hoped for the best.

.

* * *

.

The Doctor grinned and then tapped the monitor. "He got it. And… we have a reply!" he cried happily, pushing the monitor round for Sherlock to read.

'Sit tight? I'm on a BLOODY SPACESHIP.'

"Hmm. His ship must also be disguised," Sherlock mused, his eyes narrowing. He looked at the Doctor. "Can you find it?"

"Now I have more of a location to go on, yes," he said simply, swinging the monitor back toward him. Then he frowned and stood back as a rather petulant beep interrupted his ministrations. "Oh. Not good."

"What?" Sherlock blurted, pushing him to one side to see the screen.

'Very clever. Now I have your contact frequency,' the newest message read. 'If you want your companion back alive, Doctor, I suggest you bring me the feed generator in the next three hours. You know where I am.'

"Damn!" Sherlock exploded, twirling away from the console in a cloud of anger.

"Just slow down!" the Timelord called at him, already pulling the monitor straight and playing with controls. "Now he's contacted us directly he's given us the location of his ship, and we can get John back - alive and swearing."

"We have to find it in under three hours!" He swung away, his hands in his hair as he growled in impatience. "Where is it? Why has it just disappeared! This is _impossible!_"

"Oh don't be such a drama queen!" the Doctor cried, his voice pitched high in incredulity. "We'll just have to find it!"

"Oh yes, because our search so far has gone so _very_ well," Sherlock snapped with more sarcasm than would have fitted into the TARDIS. "I will not let this candlestick beat me!"

"Or John die," the Doctor added pointedly.

"He won't die, whoever has him needs him as a bargaining chip."

"And when we arrive in three hours without the generator?" the Doctor snapped. "What happens to your friend then, _Sherlock_?"

"Blogger! He's just a blogger!" he raged.

"Just a blogger?" the Doctor accused. "You really have no idea, do you? Don't you realise how important he is?"

"Of course he's important," Sherlock snapped. "He's _useful_, unlike most of this city! He's a war veteran and a crack-shot! He shoots bloody awful cabbies! Has a lot of common sense, draws attention to those useless little things I don't care about because he's cursed with someone else's idea of a conscience and sometimes he looks at me with this unfed-fish look on his face and I realise I've crossed some stupid boundary that only the vacant masses value - but none of that is relevant to _finding this bloody candlestick!_" He huffed, ignoring the way the Gallifreyan's face went dark with disappointment. "Or finding this blundering alien _idiot_ who thinks John's your travelling companion!"

"A _friend_," the Doctor stated firmly, "who buys your tea and milk, who's dependable and always right there when you need him - and sometimes he looks at you with that unfed-fish look on his face and you realise you've crossed some 'stupid boundary that only the vacant masses value'." He sighed, a touch sadly, Sherlock noted with curiosity. "And that's why even I - with an IQ roughly three times yours - need someone to give me that unfed-fish look so _I_ know when I've crossed a line."

Sherlock looked at the Time Rotor hastily, lifting his chin and clearing his throat.

"You're a genius, and that's great," the Doctor pressed. "But you need someone to point these irrelevant things out for you - _because_ you think they're irrelevant. They're not - not to everyone else. _Now_ do you see how important _he_ is?"

"Of course I see - I see _everything_," Sherlock retaliated rather petulantly. "It's just not relevant."

"Really? Then why does it bug you that it matters to John, and everyone else?"

The detective didn't answer, but it was hardly necessary; his eyes slid away to the left, keeping his shoulders back in stubborn refusal to play anyone else's game.

"Everyone might think you're odd. Doesn't mean it's a bad thing. And John Watson is most definitely _not_ everyone," the Doctor added with a smile, sensing victory.

"Is this going somewhere?" Sherlock interrupted testily.

"And who else would you find to put up with your tantrums - all those times you throw your toys out of the pram - and your violin-fussing-"

"Yes yes, all that, he's a hero," Sherlock rattled off dismissively, flapping a hand at him.

"Just you remember that," the Doctor warned. "And he doesn't even goes on at you about your 'seven percent solution' when you're bored-"

"He doesn't know about my seven percent-." Sherlock stopped dead, regrouping. "How do _you_ know about my seven percent solution?"

"Read it in a book," the Doctor mumbled, his face averted.

"What book?" he demanded.

"Alright, fine," the Doctor grumped. He yanked the keyboard of the monitor closer to him and banged away at the symbols thereon. "Sherlock Holmes, the Adventures Of," he said under his breath. "Now, take a look at this book and tell me-. Oh," he cut himself off, and Sherlock watched his face turned terribly vexed. "Not one reference to you in the Encyclopaedia Galactica? What? Be_have_!" he warned the monitor, fetching it a slap with the heel of his hand. He banged away at the keys again. "Author, author, here we are… And-. Oh." He halted again.

Sherlock whisked up to his side and looked round his shoulder. "Nothing. See? No mention of anyone ever having written about me," he said, eyeing the jumble of information on the screen. "I _am_ actually me, and you're mistaking me for someone you once read about in some newspaper."

The Doctor bit the inside of his lip, before looking at the man peering right through his personal space at the screen. "You may be right," he muttered thoughtfully. "I just can't work out how that's possible."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and backed away again. "This is just a distraction, useless time-wasting," he announced. "This - this - this whole case has been _wrong_. Why a lenticular alignment feed generator? Why was it stolen in the first place? _How_ was it stolen from a locked room with no signs of forced entry, no signs of egress or exit? Who would have bothered? Why steal it and then keep it in the city - no, why steal it and then just _keep_ it? Have no plan to sell it or use it or-." He stopped dead. His hands went out as if for balance as he looked around the huge room with sudden calm.

"And it got itself stolen just before I arrived and needed it," the Doctor put in. "And right before this grainjellian wanted it, too."

"This what?" he asked irritably, his brain trying for 4,200 rpm and coming very close.

"Grainjellian. The man who looks like a normal bloke - the one on the riverbank. He's not human, he's grainjellian. They specialise in system disruption for a price. Letting him have the generator would be very very _bad_."

"You mean solar system?"

"Yes."

Sherlock gasped suddenly, taking off at a run. He skidded down the ramp toward the front door. The doors were ripped open and he disappeared. The Doctor looked up, thought for a second, then went back to the monitor.

Barely a minute went by before Sherlock jumped in through the open doors, slamming them behind him. He leant on them and grinned. The Timelord looked over, mystified.

"_You_ stole it!" Sherlock cried happily.

"What?"

"_You_ stole the generator! Think!" He let go of the doors and flew up the incline, coming to a stop so close to the Doctor's large eyes it was a wonder they didn't give a short sharp girlie scream and stagger back in his head.

"Me?"

"Oh come on!" Sherlock implored, his hands out in supplication. "You're clever, used to four dimensions, work it out! How else could someone get into the museum _with all the doors locked_ and pick up the generator before simply disappearing with it! You'd need something that could materialise right there, in the very room, and then take you away again afterwards!"

"How did you know the TARDIS can materialise-"

"No scuff marks or wheel treads or burns or disturbance of any kind outside so you must have materialised _here_," he barked. "Think about it, Doctor! That's why no-one's seen it or heard of it since it's been stolen - because you are about to have gone back in time to bring it straight here, from this afternoon to now - so it's physically nowhere for the twelve hours that we've been looking for it! Don't you see?"

The Doctor looked from the man's paler face to the decking. "Well cover me in flour and eggs and bake me for twenty minutes," he marvelled. "I think you're right." Then he frowned. "But that would mean if I don't steal it now, none of this will have happened - it won't have gone missing twelve hours ago-"

"-And the alien will have it and cause havoc," Sherlock interrupted. "But it _will_ happen because it already _has!_" he urged. "It's _already_ been stolen because you haven't not yet already will steal it! You see!"

"It's so refreshing to talk to someone who understands time," he said to himself with a daffy grin. "So let's go steal a candlestick!"

"It's not a candlestick," Sherlock corrected.

"Hold on!" the Doctor cried, already reaching for levers.

The TARDIS shuddered. She disappeared.

.

* * *

.

Watson looked up as the door opened again. The man loomed in the doorway, smiling slightly.

"Nice place you have here," the ex-army doctor said genially. "If I may ask… where exactly is, um, here?"

"My ship. Thank you for replying to your friend's message. It helped me find him."

"Bugger!" Watson tutted, slapping his hands to his head and turning away. He let his fingers slide from his face slowly. He turned around again to look at the man. "So what do we do now?"

"We wait," the man said cheerfully. "Your friend and his consulting sidekick are no doubt locating the generator as we speak."

"Sherlock? A sidekick? That'll be the day," he snorted in amusement. The man turned to go, but Watson took a step closer. "Tell me - when you get this generator, what do you plan to do with it?"

"Use it," the man said simply.

"Oh. I was afraid you'd say that," he sighed.

The man appraised him for a long moment. "Would you like some… refreshment?"

Watson just blinked, before pulling himself together. "Uhm, no, thank you. If it's all the same to you."

The man inclined his head and retreated from the room, closing the door. Watson went over to the window quickly, poking his head out to look left down the corridor. He spotted the shadow of someone on the decking and smiled maliciously.

"Wouldn't mind a bathroom though!" he called.

The shadow paused, then grew darker as he watched. A head appeared round the corner and Watson's smile vanished.

The head - green and scaled, sporting thin, wispy tassel-like hairs from a seam running right over the centre - bent its wide orifice into an ellipse. "I'll see what I can do," it wheezed.

Every shred of decorum and manners that Watson possessed got into an instant fight with his shock, beating it over the head and coming up victorious. As a result, Watson neither shrieked in fright nor blurted out his terrified realisation regarding the man's ancestry.

Instead, his mouth opened and he managed to deliver the best of British, if in a somewhat stammered fashion: "Th-thank you."

Then he pulled his head back in the window and moved to the other side of the room to lean on the wall, his eyes pinned to the window. He slid his back down the stable surface, crouching and watching.

Very carefully.

.

* * *

.

The TARDIS lurched slightly, making the two men make a grab for something to steady them. Suddenly she slammed to a stop, sending them into the decking. The Doctor rolled to his feet first, looking around and spotting a black shoe dragging itself out of sight around the other side of the Time Rotor.

"You alright, Sherlock?" he called hopefully.

A flounce of black hair shot up from the opposite side. "Are we there yet?" he asked irritably as he dusted himself down with his one free hand, but the Gallifreyan smiled.

"Think so. Ready?"

Sherlock raised the generator in his right hand, looking it up and down carefully. "As I can be." He paused. "First time I've broken into a museum."

"And?" the Doctor grinned.

"Beats pickpocketing Lestrade," he shrugged. He scrutinised the generator as he slid a finger over the rusty armature at the end, finding one of the red tips.

"Careful!" the Doctor warned.

Sherlock looked at him quickly, then back at the artefact. "Quite." He sniffed and reversed it, coming round the console and offering it to him. "There. Before I misalign something."

The Doctor smiled and took it, his eyes running over it. "So this other alien - you're not fazed that he _is_ an alien?"

"No more than you are," Sherlock said mildly, his face a picture of enigmatic amusement. Then it pinched slightly in concern. "Are you going to accept the fact that I'm not a character from a one hundred-year-old gazette, or book, or whatever?"

The Doctor's expression melted into a thoughtful frown. "Y'know, I don't think you are. At least… not yet."

The TARDIS gave a soft, polite ping and Sherlock immediately looked toward the doors.

"Well?" the Doctor said. "Shall we?"

Sherlock swished his open coat-edge out of the way and set off down the incline to the exit. He had given the left door a smart push and take a step outside before the Doctor caught him up.

They stood and stared, eyeing the large, decaying house thirty feet in front of them.

"Looks like it should be a listed building… but it's not," Sherlock assessed, taking off left to come closer, following the edge of it. "The bricks aren't old, they're new but made to look distressed," he called, reaching a hand out to rap a knuckle into one at knee-height. It gave a tinny echo and he stood back. "Metal. So this is a disguised ship, same as yours?"

"Nothing like mine," the Doctor snorted. "This is a grainjellian tech. scout vessel. Mine's a… home-grown imprimatur-based transcendental companion."

"So where's the door?" Sherlock mused, already turning and coming back. But he passed the brown-suited alien and went on by, studying the rotting windows frames, the chipped brickwork, the sagging ivy on the outside of the three-storey townhouse that had seen better days. He stopped as he came to a white portico framing a rather elaborate front door. He looked over at the Doctor before putting his hand out to try to grasp the heavy brass knocker. The ring turned out to be real; he lifted it to ninety degrees and then simply released it. It fell into the door and a huge _boom_ reverberated on the inside.

The Doctor hurried up behind him, looking over his shoulder.

They waited. And waited. Finally Sherlock lifted the knocker again and dropped it once into the door.

Again they waited.

And… waited.

Sherlock snatched up the ring and belted it repeatedly into the door. "Oh come on!" he cried impatiently. "The ship isn't _that_ big! Stop making us wait!"

He hammered it over and over into the metal housing until the Doctor grabbed his wrist, prompting him to let go of it. Sherlock cleared his throat and the Doctor opened his hand. Sherlock's hands went into his pockets and they both concentrated steadfastly on the door.

At last there was the sound of metal shifting. The door, contrary to its appearance, was sucked inside about a foot before it slid neatly to the left. A man stood, looking out.

"Hello again," the Doctor said cheerfully. The man simply blinked. "We met on the riverbank."

"No…" Sherlock mused, "…we didn't. He looks almost identical, but… he's not. Supposition: any and all of the aliens on this ship only have one human model to copy, so they do. They'll all look like him," he said offhand.

The Doctor nodded. "Possibly. Let's find out."

The man opened his mouth, even as Sherlock was trying to see round him into the 'house'. "You will come with-"

"Which way?" Sherlock demanded, barging past him and finding himself on the decking of a large square room that owed a lot to metal structuring and nothing at all to do with a Victorian townhouse. He whirled around, his eyes narrowed, taking in everything around him. "Where's the man in charge? The man from the riverbank?"

The Doctor wandered in slowly and the man put his hand to a small square panel in the wall, prompting the door to slide across and then squeeze back into the gap. He turned to look at the two men. "Follow me," he said tonelessly.

The Doctor and the detective fell into step behind him, and two sets of ruthlessly inquisitive eyes went over the corridor they were led into. Grey and shiny, the decking beneath their feet was lit by a green glow from below, casting odd shadows over the panels and squares of patchwork metal that made the walls. The Doctor's Converse made no sound as they moved, Sherlock's shoes tapping in an expensive manner as they turned left and carried on walking.

Finally the man stopped and waved a hand at an old-fashioned wooden door in front of him.

Sherlock stepped in front and, without a word, grabbed the doorknob and flung the entrance open. He was in before the Gallifreyan could warn him. He hurried after him.

And then stopped dead.

Watson looked back at them from across the room, only the man from the riverbank between he and the two newcomers. Watson waved a hand in greeting from behind him.

"Are you alright, John?" the Doctor asked quickly, noticing Sherlock was much more interested in the room.

Watson gave a half-smile. "Yeah, I'm ok."

"Good," Sherlock snapped, transferring his gaze to the man. "Now hand him over or we 'realign' your little ship here to a place you won't like."

The man from the riverbank smiled, coming forward to pin Sherlock with an amused eyebrow raise.

"Really. Hand over the lenticular alignment feed generator or your companion here will be the first of your kind to travel in space unaided."

"Excuse me," the Doctor said quickly, elbowing Sherlock smoothly to one side. "You're grainjellian. You're not map makers. What do you want it for?"

"That is not your concern."

"Obviously it is," Sherlock sighed wearily, rolling his eyes. "Look, we know you want to disrupt some _thing_ or planet or galaxy, and you know _we_ know you know how to use the generator. What you don't know is where the generator is, and we _do_. We don't need it, we could simply go home and destroy it." He took a step forward and an ugly weight of murderous intent seeped into his eyes, turning them into something that could have punctured the hull if thrown. "So hand over the human and no generators get hurt."

The man laughed suddenly, making Watson take a step back toward the wall. He looked to his right, saw the open window not too far away, and edged slightly closer to it.

"Yes yes, it's all fun and games until someone loses a generator," the Doctor warned, before looking over his shoulder as he heard the door swing on its hinges.

"It's over," Sherlock snapped. "Make a-"

"Sherlock," the Doctor said urgently.

They both looked round to see nine men, all ostensibly identical, filing in through the door.

"Ah," Sherlock said abruptly. He turned back to look at the man. "You can't hide in them. I can tell each one of you apart."

"Hide?" he laughed. "No. Search you two and, if need be, get the location of the generator out of you? Yes."

Men came forward and grasped their arms from behind, and the doctor and the detective found themselves held fast.

"This should be interesting," the Doctor managed, eyeing his two captives a little nervously.

Sherlock said nothing. But his eyes burned.

.


	6. Generator Ex

**Act VI: Generator Ex**

.

* * *

.

The Doctor stood quite still, his arms clamped immobile by two of the unwelcome additions to the room. "Ah, now, I should warn you," he began with authority, "you're going to have trouble with my pockets."

"Don't let them have the generator," Sherlock hissed.

"Find it!" ordered the man from the riverbank.

Sherlock looked at him, but suddenly his look of cold calculation lightened just slightly. His head whipped back to the Doctor and the man now fishing through his coat pockets. The man found nothing, and the room watched as he moved onto the Timelord's trouser pocket instead.

"Honestly," the Doctor said frankly, "we could be here for years."

The man to his right grinned in triumph. His hand came out as he turned to the leader. He blinked with shock at the frozen whole salmon in his hand. He dropped it and turned back to the Doctor, plunging his hand back in. He pulled out a skipping rope - and then a small wooden penguin, followed by a Maglite, a rubber duck, an A5 sized A to Z street map of Wigan, a hand towel, and then a Martini glass.

"What's going on here?" the leader demanded angrily, but Sherlock's head flew back and he barked out a laugh.

"Transcendental pockets!" he cried. "Oh, _brilliant!_"

"Give us the generator!" the man hurled.

The Doctor appraised him with a maddening smile. "Don't look at me - it's in there somewhere. Just can't remember _where_. Try left at the cactus."

The man's hand went back into the pocket. "What cac-. _Aargh!_"

"That one," the Doctor and Sherlock chorused.

The man retrieved his hand to stare at the spine embedded in the palm. The leader growled something and pushed past Sherlock and the two men currently immobilising his arms. He went straight to the Doctor and yanked the fishing man out of the way. He looked at the man holding the Doctor's right arm.

"Let his arm free." He moved his gaze to the Doctor. "You get it."

"Or what?" the Doctor asked innocently, finding his right arm released.

"What?"

"Oh come on," he gushed with a knowing grin. "You say 'or else' - and then I say 'or else what?' and then you threaten me with something so terrible I gibber and hand over the generator," he went on.

"How about: you hand over the generator or I shoot your friend John," he said clearly, producing a shiny handgun from his coat pocket.

"Oh _God_," Sherlock groaned, extremely unimpressed. "Talk about being blind."

Everyone paused to turn to look at him.

Sherlock gestured to the window with his head. "He jumped. About… ooh, two minutes ago? No telling where he's got to now," he said wearily. "You really should have been paying attention."

"That's what comes of seeing but not observing," the Doctor commiserated.

"That's profound," Sherlock blinked.

"_Well_," the Doctor shrugged at the ceiling humbly.

The leader ran to the window and looked out.

Sherlock tutted. "What are you, dense? I just said, he went two minutes ago. He's an ex-soldier but still a fighter, and has a moral streak a mile wide - he'd never let you use this generator to upset someone else's home system," he scoffed.

"What will he do?" the man demanded.

"Uhm - stop your ship?" Sherlock hazarded deliberately clearly. "Come on man, think! He's going for the engines!"

The leader turned and pointed at five of the men. "Go - check the engine room. Lock it shut, guard it!"

They turned and ran, leaving just four men to hold onto the two prisoners. The leader lifted the gun and looked at Sherlock, coming closer. "You seem to be cleverer than most people I've met. Or just insufferably arrogant," he said slowly.

"It's entirely justified," Sherlock said mildly, watching him.

"He's right there," the Doctor put in.

The man looked at him. "You be quiet."

"Or what? You'll kill me? You don't have the generator," the Doctor scoffed.

"You don't really have a lot to bargain with, do you?" Sherlock said. "He's got what you want but you can't even find it in his pocket! He's the only one who can retrieve it for you - and you don't have anything to use as emotional leverage, because John's loose on your ship, no doubt going for sensitive control panels."

"I've still got _you_," he spat. "And your friend's human. He wouldn't know which control panels to attack."

"He was trained by the British Army," Sherlock said forcefully. "Normally that might not count for much, but John's not your usual run-of-the-mill squaddie idiot!"

"Did you _actually_ say that out loud?" came a familiar voice.

Everyone turned and looked at Watson's head, stuck out of the wall, four feet up and at ninety degrees to the world.

"John! You came back for us?" the Doctor grinned.

"You _idiot!_" Sherlock accused.

The alien leader turned to aim the gun. Watson had already pushed himself out of the wall and fallen to the floor. The gap in the nasty, rotting wallpaper revealed a break in two panels of metal underneath.

The Doctor was struggling against his two captors. Sherlock yanked on both of his own arms. The men holding him tried to pull him back. He yanked again. They stepped back as once. He lifted both feet off the floor, bolstered by their desperate pulling. His polished shoes whammed into the chest of the man holding the Doctor's left arm.

All six men went down in a heap. Watson didn't bother getting up. One foot went into the leader's ankle. The other powered home into his opposite knee. He cried out and fell. The gun clattered to the floor, spinning along the pseudo-floorboards. Watson was on his hands and knees. He scrabbled for the gun.

The Doctor ducked a weighty punch by the man on his right. Sherlock bounced to his feet as if jet-propelled. The two men swung for him at the same time. He ducked, bobbed up. His shoe heaved into a midriff, sending its owner into the two men behind. Another heap was formed as Sherlock turned and grabbed the collar of the man trying to get his hands on the Doctor. The man whirled around with a punch. Sherlock dodged then smacked a jab and a right cross into his face. He fell.

"Nice," the Doctor said breathlessly.

"Queensbury rules," Sherlock winked, before turning to find the other three men back on their feet. They began to advance on him. "Oh."

"Everyone stop!" Watson cried angrily.

The room paused, then looked over at him. His left arm was out straight, pointing the gun at the leader. He was leaning against the wall, looking very out of breath and rather vexed.

"Well," Watson added, clearing his throat and sounding much more relaxed. "Makes a change for me to have the gun and _not_ be the one tied up, kidnapped, used as a hostage, eh?" He looked at Sherlock. "Are we done here?"

The Doctor came forward, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to ease him out of the way. He stepped back, eyeing the group of men watching Watson with serious hatred. One of them moved.

"Ah-ah-ah!" Watson warned sharply. "I _will_ shoot him if you try anything."

"No you won't," the Doctor said, his large eyes communicating his authority.

"Uhm, sorry, but yes, I will," Watson argued politely. "It's been a hard day. And he might be an alien but he still has knees like everyone else, and if he wants to keep them both working he'd better tell all these - these - alien-men-things to let us go."

"We need the generator!" the leader blurted.

Watson's head snapped to look at him. "Unless your next words are 'ok, you're all free to go', I don't think you should say much," he said evenly.

Sherlock grinned, folding his hands behind his back and just watching. The Doctor came closer, looking from Watson to the leader. He tipped his eyes at the other alien.

"Why do you want the generator?" he asked slowly.

"We were paid - we were paid to deliver it," he said. "It's the last one."

"The last one?" the Doctor pressed. "In the entire universe? Come off it," he scoffed. "I heard it's part of a pair."

"So people say - but the second one's never been seen."

"How did you know it was in the museum?" Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes narrowing on the man as he approached.

"Lucky chance," the leader bit out resentfully. "One of my people saw it by accident, when it was being added to the collection. He was in the wrong museum on the wrong day - but he recognised it. He told me it was there and I found a buyer."

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket quickly, stretching his arm out toward the Doctor without even looking. "Make it work," he said imperiously.

"Blimey," the Timelord marvelled, his voice high in protest, "nothing like a 'please' or 'thank you' to make people want to help you out, eh?" He flicked his eyes to the phone, took it, and brought his sonic screwdriver out of his pocket. The tip of his tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth as he flashed the blue light up and down the side of the Blackberry. He snapped off the screwdriver and handed it back. Sherlock took it, his eyes still on the leader, before his thumbs went to the device and he began to attack the buttons.

Watson sniffed, watching the men behind them very carefully. They eyed him but did not move. His guard neither slipped nor wavered as he held the weapon on the man and kept the status quo exactly as he wanted it.

The Doctor looked back at the leader. "Tell me who paid you," he said heavily, putting his hand in his pocket and pulling the generator out first time.

"A Judoon," he blurted.

"Oh come on!" the Doctor tutted in disgust. "If you can't even think of a good lie-"

"Not a regular Judoon!" the man added hastily. "This one isn't part of the police any more. He left," he said. "He said he needed it, he had to hand it over to someone else - I got the idea it was maybe - well, maybe daleks. He paid me a lot of gold-pressed-latinum to bring it to him!"

"Well I'm sorry," the Doctor said with a small shrug, "I'm so sorry. But you'll have to give him a refund." He brought his sonic screwdriver to bear, flicking it on and running it over the edge of the device. Sherlock's eyes went to the underside suddenly and he frowned. Then they went back to his phone.

"No!" the leader cried fearfully, reaching for the generator.

Watson slipped a step closer, the barrel of the gun going into the man's cheek. "Think carefully," he warned. The man slunk back slowly and Watson drew away again, his aim reverting to the man's chest.

The blue light slipped up and over the branches of the candlestick-shaped item, and slowly, the red tips on each holder arrangement began to pulse. As the Doctor and the leader of the grainjellians watched, the red darkened and went black. The Gallifreyan pushed his thumb into the bottom of the round green embellishments, holding the screwdriver over the three of them. They brightened and pulsed, but Watson refused to let his gaze be distracted from watching the men and their counter-productive intent.

Finally the Doctor switched off the screwdriver, pushing it back in his inside pocket, looking at the generator.

"What have you done?" the leader whispered.

"Drained the power and melted down the energy core," he said sadly, raising the item to turn it this way and that, studying it.

"You've killed it!" the leader gasped. "The last lenticular alignment feed generator in the universe! And you've destroyed it!"

"People will still be able to map the stars," the Doctor said wisely, bringing the ex-generator down to watch the bright, artificial light in the room fail to produce shadows on its surface. "They'll just have to think of another way. Ah well. And I came all this way to find a working one for a friend, too." He looked at it rather sadly. "It's just a candlestick now."

The leader sank to a crouch on the floorboards, his head in his hands. "We're in trouble," he moaned. He lifted his head, looking at the men at the back of the room. "Go, start the engines. We have to get out of here as soon as we can."

They nodded as one, turning and hurrying from the room. The leader looked at the floor, shaking his head in silence.

Watson took another step back, letting the gun drop and sliding the safety on. He put it into his pocket, looking at the Doctor. "Does this mean we can go now?"

"Yeah, I think so," the Doctor nodded with an air of quiet regret.

Watson looked back at the candlestick. "We should probably return that to the museum."

"Probably." The Doctor looked at Sherlock, found him frowning slightly at the phone screen just atop his thumbs. "What did I miss?"

"The candlestick was stolen twice," he said mildly, pre-occupied.

"Twice?" Watson asked. "Oh! Right, yes," he added quickly. "So you two just stole it from whoever took it from the museum this afternoon - who _did_ steal it, by the way?" he asked with a concerned frown. "One minute we can't figure it out, the next moment you two turn up with it."

"Ah," the Doctor said knowingly. "Actually, _we_ stole it from the museum."

"It was a self-fulfilling paradox," Sherlock muttered, still watching his thumbs at work.

"There are actually two going on here," the Doctor observed to himself.

"Self-fulfilling what?" Watson asked dumbly.

"What's important is the initials scratched on the bottom of the candlestick," Sherlock mused. "It belonged to someone before it wound up in the museum. I'd love to know how it got there."

"Initials?" Watson asked.

The Doctor lifted the item, turning it round for him to see the letters 'AIC'.

"I think I've found the owner…" He paused. "Doctor," Sherlock said smartly, ignoring the leader still in a foetal ball against the wall. "Might we trouble you for a quick trip to return this to where it started?"

"So that the entire circle can be completed? Why not," the Doctor grinned.

Sherlock pocketed his phone, twirling round to make for the door. "Come along then, we have things to do." He strode out of the exit, turning left. They heard his shoes on the grating and Watson threw his hands out in surrender.

"He doesn't even know the way to the-"

"It's this way," Sherlock called as he walked back past the doorway, off in the opposite direction.

The Doctor looked at Watson, patted his shoulder, and gestured to the door with his head.

"What about him? And all the Grange Hillians?" Watson asked, pointing to the man now staring at the floor, deep in thought.

"He'll have enough to think about without us in his way," the Doctor said pleasantly, "now that he'll have a renegade Judoon after him."

"Yeah - and what's that again?"

"Police. _Well_, space police. _Well,_ space police rhino," the Doctor said, pocketing the ex-generator and rubbing his hands together. "_Allons_-y," he cried, starting for the door. Watson was left standing, his mouth open, as the tall Gallifreyan went out of the door and turned right.

"Right. Yes. Well," Watson said, his hands clapping together and then swishing round him as he turned and looked at the alien leader still curled up against the wall. "Good luck, and all that. Next time, maybe don't come to Earth, eh?" he advised awkwardly.

Then he turned and walked out as fast as his feet could take him, not looking back.

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* * *

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The Doctor opened the door to the TARDIS and stood back, just as wind and dirt whipped at his coat. Sherlock pushed in through the door without a word. The Doctor held it open for Watson, but he paused to look behind him.

"Is the ship leaving?" he cried over the noise, seeing the large Victorian townhouse shiver and tremble.

"Yes! Get in, hurry!" he urged, grabbing his arm and pushing him inside.

Watson stumbled over the lip of the TARDIS entrance but kept his balance by grabbing the railing. The Doctor hurried in but Watson rushed back up to the door, keeping it open just enough to see out. He watched, his mouth hanging open, as the house shook and rumbled, the outside of it morphing slowly into dark green, pulsing metal.

The medical doctor's eyes glued to the sight of the ship shaking off its disguise and tearing itself from the ground, the Doctor left him to it and sprang up the incline, going straight to the Time Rotor and pulling levers. Sherlock watched, one hand on the yellow-padded railing in caution.

Watson stood back from the opening, closing the door slowly and just staring at the white paintjob on the wood. "That is… the most _amazing thing I've ever seen!_" he blurted, unable to control his hanging mouth or widened eyes.

Sherlock's eyes rolled and he went back to watching the Doctor manipulate the controls. "Do you need some help?"

"Nope," the Doctor replied happily, popping the 'p'.

"Must be hard piloting this thing when you're five short," Sherlock announced.

The Doctor paused to look at him. "How did you know-"

"Six stations, room for twelve elbows," Sherlock said briskly, going to the edge to his right. "What do I press?"

The Doctor grinned, pointing to a blue toggle switch. "Flick that up and then turn the ball next to it to the three o'clock position."

Sherlock's hands went out as instructed, as the Doctor slapped a lever up. The Time Rotor wheezed into life, sliding up to great heights before simply falling back down to start the process all over again.

"That was… That was… _incredible!_" Watson cried. He pointed at the white doors before turning to look over his shoulder. "Sherlock - did you see-" His breath caught in his throat as his eyes took in the interior of the TARDIS for the first time. "_Oh… my… God_…"

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**_Concluding part coming soon! Thanks for reading, everyone!_**


	7. Writing The Past

**Warning: **

**This chapter has been rated 9 (out of 10) on the Head-asplode-o-meter by the Temporal Mechanics and Wibbly-Wobbly-Timey-Wimey Association of Plots and Paradoxes (Formerly the M. McFly-Meets-Himself Debate Society).**

**Therefore any combusting or, indeed, thermically vectored/expelled organs due to the complicated nature of the plot points herein are solely the responsibility of those who dare read it.**

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**Author's Note:**

_**Thanks for reading, all of you. It's been a roller-coaster of reading reviews, pondering every single word people leave me, and either happy-dancing or rethinking the entire strategy. Once or twice I nearly took off and nuked the entire site from orbit, just to make sure, but in the end it all made beautiful sense. I just hope it does to you…**_

_**Thanks for coming along for the ride!**_

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**Act VII: Writing the Past**

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The Doctor looked up from the console, smiling at Watson. "Well? What do you think?"

"This is… your spaceship?" Watson said weakly. "You do actually have a spaceship?"

"Yes," the Doctor grinned. "And chairs," he added, waving a hand to the eager furniture behind him.

"Yes. Chairs. Yes," Watson managed, pulling himself up the incline by the railings, making it to the high chairs at the back before his knees wobbled and he fell into the nearest one. He decided to blame this strength malfunction on the slight lurch and judder of the decking beneath his feet. "Chairs. Yes. Good." He nodded professionally, watching the two men instruct and be instructed, working away at the bizarre controls. "Chairs. Yes."

"Relax, John, everything's fine," Sherlock said, pre-occupied.

"Oh good. Ok then," Watson nodded, his hands gripping the edges of the seat as he looked around the place. "You do realise this single room is bigger than the entire police box?"

The Doctor barked out a laugh of victory. "Ha _haaa!_ Yes! Thank you!"

"What?" Watson asked dumbly.

"It's just-. Never mind," the Doctor said, still grinning madly.

Slowly, very slowly, Watson let go of the chair to look up, down, left, right - then back to the Time Rotor. "Is that… is that the engine, going up and down?"

"Sort of," the Doctor replied.

"Right. Um." Watson looked at the floor past his feet, considered the rumbling and jerking to it. "Are we going somewhere right now?"

"We are," the Doctor confirmed, turning to rest a hand on the console, looking at him.

Watson swallowed. "Where are we going?"

"To return this candlestick to the owner. Otherwise it won't get stolen from them and taken to the museum."

"And we won't steal it from the museum twelve hours after it goes missing," Sherlock put in quietly, pre-occupied.

"The first of our self-fulfilling paradoxes," the Doctor said with a nod.

"The first?" Sherlock queried.

"Oh yes," he grinned.

"The first what?" Watson said simply. Then he waved a hand at them. "Forget I asked, ok? Just… ignore me."

"Absolutely not," the Doctor scoffed. "You've been brilliant."

"I have?" Watson havered, about as confident as a blue whale eyeing up the dimensions of a child's paddling pool.

"Of course," he replied with a daffy grin. "Very human. Very heroic. Worthy of legend." He paused meaningfully. "Maybe someone should write about you two."

"Yeah, I'm not really a very good blogger," he admitted.

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock muttered, pre-occupied with taking in as much detail from the Time Rotor console as possible.

The impossibility of Watson believing what he had just heard warred with every part of his brain that found it oddly agreeable, and it was a nasty but short battle later that found Incredulity the winner regarding Sherlock's unexpected yet indirect praise. Another short fight took place as Watson tried to consign it to the 'inadvertent' category of phenomena, but the blogger in him begged for it to have been completely premeditated.

What this resulted in was Watson simply blinking at the dark-haired detective, before shaking his head and looked back at the Doctor. "So… how did you find the original owner?"

Sherlock stepped back from the Time Rotor. "The initials AIC," he said simply. "This generator thing is old, older than it should be - and not from this planet, so, left here by someone who came here and went home without it, by accident perhaps. Something like this would have been a curiosity, something in the back of a run-down curio shop - something a man on his travels might see and take home as a gift for someone in his family. Handed down from father to son then, which makes it a family heirloom, so the three initials are Christian names, without needing a surname on the end. There's only one person answering _all_ those initials, who might have had such an exotic trinket in their possession shortly before it was stolen from him and 'donated' to the Victoria and Albert in 1882," he said.

"And we're going to just drop in on them?" Watson asked. "But… that was 1882. That was… a hundred and twenty-odd years ago! They'll be long dead by now!"

The Doctor waved his arms wide in display. "Timeship," he said pointedly.

Sherlock nodded. "The Doctor _does_ travel in time, don't forget."

"Wha-. Oh. So… Oh my God! Are we travelling in time _now_?" Watson demanded, gripping the edges of the seat again.

"Yes," the Doctor smiled. "We'll be landing in… Ooh, just about now." He turned and pulled at a lever, just as Sherlock grabbed the railing behind him.

The TARDIS gave a wheeze and a very sound bump made them all squeeze their hands more tightly to their individual ideas of security. The ship sighed, happy to be at rest, as Sherlock turned and headed down to the doors, the Doctor following.

"But - but… We can't just swan around here, in 1882!" Watson protested, running after them. The three of them stood by the doors. "What happens to the future if we touch something or break something or-"

"John," the Doctor said with a knowing smile. "I think we'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" he blurted, worried.

"Yes." He turned and pushed the door open, stepping out.

"Just don't break anything," Sherlock warned, with just a hint of teasing, before he followed.

Watson took a deep breath and poked his head out of the door, staring around at the alleyway. He hastened after the other two men and stopped dead, his mouth dropping open at the sight of a street half-full of people walking to and fro. Everyone appeared oblivious to the strange men on the pavement in front of an alley, from where some rather odd noises and lights had just escaped. Watson's eyes ranged around as if in need of a Lonely Planet for the city of Completely Knocked For Six. "Oh," he blinked. "This is… really 1882?" he breathed.

"Welcome to Southsea," the Doctor grinned. "Address?"

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, reading something. "Elm Grove. Number… 1, Bush Villas."

Watson pointed at his phone. "Excuse me, how are you getting a signal on that?"

"Tethered to the ship, John," Sherlock said, distracted, as he turned and grabbed the elbow of a passer-by. "Excuse me," he said sharply. "We're looking for a medical practice on Elm Grove."

The man freed his arm quickly, looking the detective up and down. Then he pointed behind him. "That way," he said, before hurrying on his way.

"Um - thank you!" Watson called after him. The three of them hurried down the pavement, and while two of them simply wanted to get a shift on, the third, shortest member was lost in the reality of being in the past. "This is weird," he blurted.

"How so?" Sherlock asked, pre-occupied.

"Well… we're in 1882. I keep expecting Colin Firth to appear out of nowhere in proper BBC costume drama garb," he said, with a small smile.

The tall Gallifreyan looked at him. "Fun, isn't it?"

"Bloody scary," Watson admitted. But then he grinned.

The three of them turned the corner, where the street sign welcomed them to Elm Grove.

"So you never did say - who is this owner?" Watson asked, as they found number one and went up the path, Sherlock rapping rather soundly on the glass of the front door.

"No-one important. He writes - or rather, _will_ write, Professor Challenger stories," Sherlock said briskly. He knocked again and again until the door whisked open.

A young man looked out at him. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Ah, Doctor," Sherlock said, a wide smile plastered on his face. "I believe we have something that belongs to you."

The man, not quite as tall as Sherlock, his suit jacket missing and a stethoscope hanging loosely over his shoulder, simply blinked. "Me?"

"You, sir," Sherlock said, already putting a foot in the door and whisking past him, heading down the landing. "Come along, John, there's a story here worthy of your blog," he called over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry about this," Watson said earnestly, but the man shook his head.

"Don't be. I had a professor who was just the same," he said with a professional smile. "Come on in, then." He opened the door much wider and stood back, and the two doctors of differing disciplines and planets nodded gratefully, walking in. The man closed the door, pulling the stethoscope from his shoulder and bundling it in his right hand. "This way, gentlemen," he said, waving a hand out in front of them.

They walked along the landing until Sherlock's head poked out from round a doorjamb a few feet away, searching for them. "Hurry up, John. You have to see this."

Watson took a deep breath and walked on. He rounded the corner and took in the doctor's office, with its blinds and antique - _new_ - desk, the chairs and the glass-fronted display case at the far end, all manner of accoutrements and trinkets on the shelves. He wandered up to the glass, looking in.

He gasped, putting a hand up to point at the object at the front. "Is that-"

"Lovely candlestick, isn't it? Rumoured to be one of a pair," the man said, coming into the room behind the Gallifreyan, closing the door behind them. "No-one's ever seen the two together, though."

"We're too early," Sherlock said suddenly. The other three men turned and looked at him. "We're too early," he reiterated, before looking back at the medical doctor and his smart 1882 clothes. "You haven't had any break-ins? Burglaries?"

"Erm… no, none at all," the doctor replied, his face a little concerned. "Should I be worried about one?"

Sherlock turned away quickly, his palms pressed together under his nose, thinking.

"When you say 'too early'," Watson offered, "do you mean it hasn't been… _borrowed_ yet?"

"Exactly that," Sherlock agreed, his eyes going over the office so closely the furniture shrank back, muttering about personal space issues. "Wait… wait wait wait," he breathed, then turned on the only alien in the room. "We're _not_ too early at all, are we? - _Are_ we too early?"

"No," the Gallifreyan said wisely, but his knowing, fond smile was only too evident.

"Why? What have I missed?" Sherlock demanded with almost child-like eagerness.

"A little bit of fourth-dimensional stuff," he allowed. "And one thing you couldn't possibly have worked out with the data you had to hand."

Sherlock relaxed slightly. "Explain."

"You know how this one is all dark and deactivated?" the Gallifreyan said, producing the other, matching candlestick from his pocket. "Well… it can't stay like that. Can it."

"Well blow me down," the owner said incredulously. "The second candlestick! And I thought it was a myth! Wherever did you find it, sir!"

"That is a very long story," Watson sighed.

The man put his hands out for the generator. "May I?"

The Timelord handed it over and he took it carefully, going to the glass case and opening it, setting it on the shelf by the other one.

"The colours aren't the same," he noted. "The red and green has come off."

"Yes… it's just a candlestick now," the tall alien Doctor said. "The other one, though… That's more complicated."

Watson gasped. "You mean that's a generator too?"

"No," Sherlock realised. "It's the _same_ generator. Earlier in its life."

Watson just blinked at him.

Sherlock frowned, and great tides of intellect and pure stubborn force of will were applied to the particularly knotty problem he had apparently stumbled over. "But that means… The other one, the one we found here first… it should be dark and useless too. Which means none of this can ever have happened!"

"Excuse me," Watson said quietly. "Could you-"

"Oh _yes_," Sherlock said with irritation. "Someone will break in here to steal a candlestick, believing it to be valuable because of the colours - but they'll leave the blackened one because they'll think it's damaged. They'll find out that they can't sell it as a single item but don't want to risk coming back to take the blackened one, so they'll give up and sell it to some misguided, helpful soul in the museum in London instead. The museum will analyse it, find out it's made up of metals they can't divine and simply give up and put it on display. One night, a grainjellian will accidentally be in the Victoria and Albert Museum and see it get set in the case, and call his boss - the man from the riverbank. _He_ will call his friend the Judoon, offering him what he thinks is the universe's last lenticular alignment feed generator for a hefty price. The Judoon will contact someone who will also pay handsomely for it, and the deal will be set up. The grainjellians will go to 2011 to steal it from the museum, but the Doctor and I will have already not yet stolen it, so it won't be there. You know the rest," he snapped.

Watson let his mouth flounder.

"I say, that's extraordinary!" gasped the only man from 1882.

"Well," the alien announced, drawing everyone's attention. "You're mostly right. The only thing you don't know - _couldn't_ know - is that there will be no dark, deactivated one. Because…" He moved to the case, opening the glass again and picking up the red and green bespeckled specimen. "When you turn it on, it does this really _really_ neat trick." He turned it upside down, pressed a single green mark and then each of the red tips of the holders, and then put it back on the shelf.

The red tips pulsed, the green circles began to shine, and all four men watched with faces that ran the gamut from rapture to horror, as the working generator began to vibrate and hum.

"Should it be doing that?" Watson dared.

"Watch," the alien advised.

Four pairs of eyes witnessed the second, dark generator begin to buzz. The marks on the trunk, formerly green but now a sad and unremarkable black, flickered and started to pulse. The red tips followed suit, and barely thirty seconds later, the blackened, defunct version had been restored. They found themselves looking at two identical candlesticks.

The Doctor reached out and picked up the one on the left, turning it over and pressing at green and red tips. The noise died, the lights and power seemed to bleed off, and he put it back down.

They looked from one candlestick to the other, finding them both, once again, clean, shiny - working.

"Well I'll be damned," Watson whispered. "Did it just repair the other one?"

"It couldn't have done that - it's only _self_-repairing," the Doctor allowed, his hands in his pockets. "So, finding itself in a state unable to function - confusing its future self for its current one - it set about repairing itself. Only the self it repaired was itself from its own future - the 'other' one," he beamed. "Cool, eh? Now, when I put it in the bottom cupboard here…" He bent and opened the doors at the base of the display case, putting it on the shelf. He closed the doors and looked up. "…And ask our new friend here to leave it in there, the original one will get stolen a short time from now to end up the in museum, but it'll leave behind the this repaired one, still working. Our friend here can take it out and put it back on the shelf. When we return our deactivated one in reality a hundred and twenty-nine years but to everyone else only ten minutes go this afternoon, they'll both be here, ready to start the cycle for the first time. Again." He pulled his sonic screwdriver out of his jacket pocket and it buzzed at the doors for a moment. "Locked."

"I think I have a headache," Watson sighed, straightening up and finding the local medical man watching them all.

"Extraordinary!" he managed. "Absolutely… mad! You're all mad as a box of frogs!" he exclaimed, but he was chuckling and running a hand through his thinning hair. "What a trick, sir! What a story there must be to tell!"

"It's easy to put together," Sherlock said dismissively, his gaze wandering the room. "The real question would be why you have the generator in the first place."

"Oh, my father gave it to me - a gift from the Dark Continent, I think," he said.

"Ah," Sherlock nodded, looking at Watson with a very satisfied smile.

"Well, let's all have a sit down and get to know each other, shall we?" the man said eagerly, waving a hand at the chairs in the room.

"We know as much as we need to know," Sherlock replied, definitely uninterested. Watson elbowed him rather sharply, putting a fist to his own mouth. '_Manners_', he coughed into his hand. Sherlock's eyes slid to him, then the Doctor. The Gallifreyan raised his eyes at him rather pointedly. Sherlock gave a small sigh and forced his lips into a line that just about passed for a polite smile. "Fine. Let's," he said, making an effort to sound pleasant.

"How could you know about me? We've just met, sir," the doctor smiled.

Sherlock's right eyebrow raised a full inch, and Watson groaned, turning his eyes up in a plea for help from the Gallifreyan next to him. The Doctor simply shrugged.

Sherlock took a slight breath. "You're a doctor and a good one, but you don't have a lot of business so you scribble down your little stories and hope to see them in print one day because it amuses you. You've just split from your former classmate at the practice you two had in… Plymouth, and now you've set up here in the hopes of having a more relaxed working life, seeing as your previous partner drove you to distraction," he went on.

"Why, that's… absolutely right!" the man blurted. "However did you know?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, wandering to the desk and picking up a sheet of paper. "This isn't note paper or prescription paper, it's thicker, more expensive - you're writing a letter or medical essay, then. But it's not a letter, judging by the lack of an address block in the blotter and the absence of stamps and envelopes on your desk - and it's not a medical essay because you've screwed up and thrown away more than you've written," he said, pointing to the waste paper basket. "Prose, then. The name on the practice outside has one name on it but it was meant to have two - the painter managed to change the letters and space it out, so you thought you would have another investor but they pulled out. Why would you need an investor in your practice when you could have a partner? You don't _want_ to take on a partner to help you out - why not? Because the last time you did you found him difficult to work with."

"I know how he feels," Watson muttered.

Sherlock ignored him. "You're a young man, this is your second business - but the first time you tried it would have been with someone you knew and could rely upon professionally - a former classmate or alumni, then."

"Yes! Exactly right!" the man grinned, shaking his head. "And how did you know I'd come here from Plymouth?"

"Simple. The opened letters on your desk - your former partner has written this new address on it and had them sent on - but the original address on the envelope was Plymouth," he said with a small shrug.

The man clapped his hands together, apparently overjoyed. "Stupendous, sir! Simply stupendous! And I don't even know your name!"

"Sher-"

"Sean. Sean - ahm - Jones," the Doctor interrupted quickly. Sherlock looked at him and his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"And my… blogger," Sherlock said, waving a hand to Watson.

"Blogger?" the man asked.

"Someone who journals the more exciting parts of my life," Sherlock allowed.

"Oh I see - like a Boswell?"

"Rather much, yes," Sherlock grinned suddenly. "My Boswell - Doctor John - um - Washington."

"Hello," Watson managed, shaking the man's hand.

"And Doctor Smith," Sherlock added, waving a hand to the Gallifreyan.

"Doctor _John_ Smith," the Timelord nodded, putting his hand out and shaking his firmly.

"Well that's a fine thing!" the man chuckled. "Three of us doctors, eh? And you sir, you're not in the medical profession?" he asked Sherlock as the Gallifreyan stepped back.

"Oh no, not me," Sherlock said. "I'm a… consultant."

"Well, I say," the man said. "I really must hear this story over again," he said, waving to the chairs. "Please, sit down, gentlemen. Mr Jones - you must walk me through this amazing deductive reasoning thing you do - it's astounding, sir. But first - tell me _everything_ about this incredible case of a missing candlestick."

"Will you turn it into a story?" Sherlock asked slyly.

"You know, I just might!" the man laughed, as the four of them sat.

"Then I don't know if I should," Sherlock said, rather more relaxed than he had sounded.

The Doctor leaned forward slightly. "Oohh, I think perhaps you should. It would solve our other little self-fulfilling paradox we have here," he smiled.

"You mean apart from the candlesticks?" Watson asked dumbly.

"Oh yes. There's also the small matter of me remembering having read books that haven't been written. Yet," the Doctor said to him from the side of his mouth as there was a knock at the door.

A blond female head appeared round the edge. "Oh, Doctor," said the young woman. "Mr Beeton just called, said he'd like to talk to you about offering you a submission for his Christmas paperback gazette, perhaps for next year, if you feel ready. And Mrs Winslow has had to cancel her appointment for this afternoon: you've no-one until four."

"Thank you, Miss Grant," he nodded.

She nodded and disappeared, closing the door again.

The man leaned forward, moving his name plate away from the front of his desk and clasping his hands together. "You know, I've been looking for something to write about that I can really get my teeth into," he confided. "Perhaps the absolute fantasticness of your story might spur me on, what?"

"Perhaps," 'Doctor John Smith' grinned, sitting back and deciding to say nothing at all until four o'clock.

"So, where do we start?" the man asked, looking at Sherlock and waiting patiently.

"Well, Doctor… Doyle, is it?" he asked, eyeing the name plate.

"I prefer Conan Doyle - but please, call me Arthur," he replied eagerly. "So, start at the beginning - and explain _everything_."

.

**FIN**


End file.
